Pages Come Alive
by LateNightGlow
Summary: Arthur Kirkland the author has grown sick of his most famous character: Francis Bonnefoy. It seems with each new installment of Arthur's best-selling series starring Francis, the public only clamors for more-and they're dying to read the next book! Which is great, because Arthur just finished it by killing off the beloved Francis… but then who should show up but Francis himself!
1. Chapter 1

This is a response to a kinkmeme request. I'll post the link later on my profile if any of you are interested to see the original prompt and also the link to my livejournal profile (which I have yet to create). Uh... let me know what you think of this. I'm not done yet (obviously) and I have no idea how this will end but... We'll find out! :D

Also, sorry about weird ratings. I had no idea how to categorize this so... yeah. Rating might go up but for now it's in the K-T range.

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Arthur Kirkland was alone.

He lived alone in a small cottage just outside the city and the suburbs, far enough away from civilization but close enough to run into town for weekly errands or emergencies. He was content though. He didn't have to listen to the honking cars or walk on cold, hard streets. He'd done that before and hadn't gotten a good night's rest for the few months he actually lived in the city.

He made his living on his books, none of them terribly popular or world-famous, but enough to please the readers he entertained. He'd saved money from his government job that he maintained while living in the city. Money wasn't too much of an issue.

He didn't have neighbors but he did have a small tabby cat who kept him company, curled on his lap during the cold winters and sleeping close when Arthur was working.

Arthur had up and down days. Some days he'd be active and productive, doing housework, talking to his editor, writing a few chapters on his latest novel. Other days, his body and mind seemed to slow him down. Sometimes he didn't want to get out of bed or even wake up. His dreams were of happier times but he knew they were gone.

Never less, on down days, he'd schedule a visit with a friend or make something special. Sometimes he'd have tea with the closest neighbor he had or he'd wait for the post and chat with the mail man for a while, talking until the mail man had to move on or go home.

Sometimes Arthur did wish to have more friends or a companion. Sometimes, he wanted to spend hours and days with someone, debating, talking and being together but he'd tried making friends before, nearly stressing himself out. Often times he'd give up and convince himself that living the way he did was best and he didn't need someone.

It was one particularly sunny day when he went into town and he was riding on the train to the afternoon market. He shifted uncomfortably, wedged between two men with briefcases and work clothes on the train. As the train stopped at the first few stations on the outskirts of the city, more and more people came onto the train. Arthur frowned and tried to make room for those who needed to sit down. People fanned themselves on the train, unused to the sun showing and warming the air considerably. He tugged at his collar uncomfortably and shifted his satchel on his shoulder.

He felt a cool rush of air from the train station when it arrived at the main station, the doors sliding open with a muted screech. Arthur squeezed past everyone, glad to have escaped the sardine can of a car and sighed, frowning slightly at the hustle and bustle of the station. He walked the stairs to street level and blinked a few times in the afternoon sun. He sighed and headed off to the market, keeping a hand on his satchel's strap.

He hurried along the sidewalk, jumping a few times when a driver honked but tried to enjoy the city again. The city was basking in the sun, windows thrown open, clothes hung on lines and fans turned on high. It was very unusual of the weather but the people loved it. It was so wet and dreary sometimes; people just wore rain jackets and carried umbrellas wherever they went.

Needless to say though, Arthur grumbled about having to worry about his butter and milk.

When he got to the market, Arthur sighed, his mood lifting. Vendors called out to the people wandering the aisles, offering deals and sales. People shuffled through the rows, carrying bags of organic groceries and other artisan products.

Arthur made a beeline for the organic made tea stand ran by a retired old couple and smiled at them.

"Hello," he called out to them. The old woman's cheeks rose as her kind smile widened. She tapped her husband's shoulder and held out her arms to him.

Usually, Arthur was not one for hugs but he liked the old couple and felt welcome in her arms. She was warm and plump, her clothes smelling of spice and baking. She patted his cheek after releasing him and smiled at him.

"Hello, Arthur!" She held him at arm's length, looking him up and down. "How have you been? How is your health? Have you been eating properly?" She looked him over like a mother looking over her child before dinner.

"I am well," he said smiling. The woman's husband nodded to Arthur and tended to the stall, letting his wife have the freedom to talk. He knew Arthur's significance to her. "It's quite a warm day, isn't it?" I could smell the tea down the street."

"Oh, indeed..." She tittered. "That's what the regulars say too. Even Mr. Thompson said he was able to smell the stall from his home!" Arthur smiled knowingly. Mr. Thompson was old and blind but he had impeccable ears and a comparable nose. He could smell what you'd had for lunch from across the room and could hear a fly buzzing against a window in the next room over.

"So, did you come for our special today?" the woman asked kindly. "Most people don't want a hot drink right now, but we've got select tea leaves on sale and ice tea drinks."

"Iced tea? How very American..." Arthur mused. Though a cool swig of ice tea did smell good... "What tea leaves are on sale?"

"We can always count on you, Arthur," the man said over his shoulder. "Even if no one else comes to our stand, we'll always have you." He smiled and went back to serving the customers. The woman showed Arthur the packaged tea bags and pointed out the best tasting and the ones that were the 'hidden gems'.

All was fine until the next question came.

"So how is that next book going?" The woman asked softly, smiling at him. "I very much enjoyed the books so far. Are you continuing the series?" Arthur nearly choked and blinked a few times, looking at her, perplexed.

Not many people knew who Arthur was, but actually, Arthur was quite the author, one who had captured the hearts of readers across the UK. His novels were something of a surprise, selling out quickly. Naturally Arthur wrote under a different name but that hadn't stopped the tea stand owner's wife. Although his books were not for any particular audience, many people enjoyed them, many begging for the next novel as soon as the preceding one had been finished. For now, Arthur was happy in his small cottage, letting his PO Box fill up without his supervision.

"I... I'll see what I can come up with..." he said weakly. The woman nodded eagerly and then patted his shoulder.

"I can't wait," she said and Arthur nodded, smiling slightly and sighed, bidding them farewell after buying a few packs of tea. Arthur walked through the rest of the market, stopping occasionally at different stalls, but he was now distracted, his mind turning to his book.

His books were a horror series that quickly gained popularity around Arthur's thirty-second birthday. When Arthur got the letter from his editor about his sales around the entire island nations, Arthur quickly moved to the country, dropping his job, trying to hide. Somehow though, people got his address but fortunately, no one showed up at his house. Arthur used to read the letters of adoration but eventually, with each new release, the letters would increase exponentially and Arthur would read only those that seemed to stand out to him.

What seemed to captivate the readers was not Arthur's antagonist, the darkness influencing the darkness within, but it was Arthur's main character Francis. Francis, a French news reporter investigating a recent murder on a slow news day, had been thrown into an inescapable game with a serial killer who slowly drew Francis to madness.

The reporter had a totally of three encounters with the serial killer, witnessing the death of six victims, and countless of injuries of innocent lives, all of them bloody and yet, somehow compelling to the Frenchman. He had become accustomed to the sight of blood now, if not almost pleasant, but the killer had recently taken it too far, with Francis waking up with his wife's throat slip, his hands covered in her blood and clutching the knife that'd ended his wife.

And that's where Arthur had left his last book. And where Arthur began Francis's end.

When Arthur made it home with his groceries, he set them down on the kitchen counter and sighed. His kitchen table was almost completely covered with stacks of letters from a recent trip from the post office. A soft yellow lamp sat on the table by the recliner and Arthur turned it on, illuminating his falls filled with so many books, there were books on top of the upright books, tucked into any available space on the shelves.

A middle-aged tabby shifted and blinked from the recliner's seat, looking at Arthur with large green orbs. The corner of Arthur's mouth twitched and he walked over to run his fingers through the animal's fur, murmuring words of affection for the feline.

He walked back to the kitchen, unpacking his groceries and putting them away. He tucked his cloth bags under the sink and sighed, wiping his hands on his pants, looking around.

Arthur's eyes landed on the stacks of mail and sighed again, pulling out a chair and sitting down, sinking slightly into the patterned cushion. His cat came over shortly after to sit in the area just to Arthur's left arm as he pulled a pack of letters towards him. The letters were tied together with string and Arthur pulled at the knot at the top. The letters tipped and spilled but were controlled by Arthur's quick hands. The majority of them were white or manila but he occasionally got colored envelopes. Some had been sealed with wax, some had stickers but most were licked shut. None of them were particularly eye catching or extraordinary.

Arthur picked up his mail knife and slid the tip under a random letter, pulling upwards. He slid the letter out and unfolded it.

_Dear Mr. Harris,_

_Arthur paused before continuing. Sometimes he had to remember his public name was different from his real name._

_I am writing to tell you how much I adore your series! You're a great author! My friends love you too! We used The Knife as our book club book this month and everyone loved it! There's a girl in our club who usually has scathing comments about each book but she didn't this time! I can't wait for the next book! Will Francis be okay? Anyway, you're my favorite author and I'm sure you get toooooooooons of mail but thanks for reading this!_

_From your biggest fan,_

_Ellie, 15_

_Glasgow._

Arthur chuckled a bit and set the letter aside. He liked his younger readers, though sometimes he questioned the parents allowing their children to read some of his less than happy/appropriate books. Arthur opened a second letter.

_Mr. Harris,_

_Words cannot describe how disappointed I am. As a human being, I demand of you to rewrite or change the plot of your books. They are unrealistic and sadistic. I can't imagine others reading such-_

Arthur put down the letter. He'd certainly get more of those later. He started a new pile away from the previous pile.

_Hi Mr. Harris,_

_Thank you for writing such wonderful books! I enjoyed every one of them. You're my favorite author. My English professor and I talked for an hour after class over your books, especially about The Panther. I think my favorite would be The Blood though. The way Francis still resists Mr. O'Connell's games but is still tempted is so…_

Arthur sat in his kitchen quietly. Letters were strewn about him, no longer in neat piles but in scattered clusters. His cat sat idly next to him, purring when her owner scratched her head and behind her ears.

_Enough of this,_ Arthur thought. _Time to get to work._

Arthur stood and put the kettle on for tea, preparing a tea-cup with a bit of cream. The stove clicked to life, blue flames spurting out against the brass kettle. Arthur walked back to his bedroom, pulling out his laptop and opening it. Arthur opened the top and logged in, setting the computer on his table.

100% battery.

12:27 AM.

19,462 words to go.

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Let me know of any spelling or grammar issues please.

Reviews are love :)


	2. Chapter 2

**Super long chapter guys, but I got it done. I'm going to go pass out now because it's 1 AM and I have to get up in 4 hours for school... *dies* Enjoy! I don't know when the next chapter will be posted...**

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"You're done?" Kiku asked in surprise, his voice lightening with the news. "That's great! Is it in the mail now?"

"I'm not sending it through the post," Arthur replied, rubbing his eyes. He yawned and reached for his tea, only to find it cold. Arthur stood and staggered to the kitchen again, turning the stove back on to reheat the kettle. Arthur got more leaves out and another tea cup out.

There was a pause on the other end. "Are you paying me a visit?" Kiku asked.

"Mmhm," Arthur hit the print button and looked at his waking printer. It wined but the pages came out, covered in ink.

"Is it that important?" Kiku asked. He sounded worried.

"It is." Arthur said. "It's the end." Arthur could hear the chair scrape back through the phone speaker.

"What do you mean 'it's the end'?" Kiku paused. "The end of your series?"

Arthur replied with a tired 'yes'.

"Oh." Kiku paused again, taking time to process. "Your fans will be disappointed."

"I know," Arthur said. "But Francis needs to end." Arthur heard voices talking to Kiku and Kiku held the phone away from his mouth. Arthur listened but couldn't make anything out.

"I've got to go, Arthur," Kiku said. "I will talk to you later."

Arthur sighed and set the phone down. Kiku, while quite considerate and polite, could get riled up if his main profit avenue was closing. Though it wasn't as if Arthur was being forced against his will to write and it wasn't as if Arthur would stop writing, but Arthur was sick of hearing all about Francis.

Francis.

Portrayed as analytical, proud, and handsome, Francis had caught the attention of most women. Being French also left some to the imagination as the foreign nature of the man was exotic and exciting. Personally, Arthur couldn't stand the French and scoffed at their accents and culture. But somehow, he'd made his main character French.

Francis's end would be a relief.

Half way through Arthur's second book, _The Panther_, he'd tested the waters with the possibility of Francis's death but had resurrected him before the next chapter. He'd read numerous letters that had commented on those chapters specifically, expressing concern, relief and excitement. 'Most authors don't scare the audience like that!' many had said. 'We were so scared for him!'

_He's just a character. Just words on the page,_ Arthur would always say in response, not like the readers could hear him though.

Arthur stared at his old fashioned phone. It was an old Paramount rotary desk phone that he'd had in his family since his grandfather's time. He thought about how his relatives had used this phone previously as well and how he remembered what a pain it was to connect the phone so he could get calls in and out of his house.

Previously, Arthur had thought of not even getting a phone, cable, and internet connection but he soon found that others needed to communicate with him quicker than 'snail mail' and that having internet allowed him to type and search quicker since type writer ink was so expensive and hard to come by nowadays. He didn't like so much of his budget being portioned out just for the sake of writing. Pens and paper weren't so expensive but then someone had to be hired- no, _paid_ (because god forbid a job being created out of necessity)- to type up the entirety of the book.

Kiku Honda, Arthur's editor, had almost forced him to set up an email though. Arthur had finally obliged but had refused to check it religiously, deciding to post his PO box to make up for abstaining to post the email address online.

Kiku had also put a hit counter onto the author website and was amazed counter shot up past the first few millions.

Arthur himself had checked out the site, clicking on and reading every page. Occasionally, he scoffed as the truth was stretched but was overall pleased with what could be read on Arthur.

Kiku insisted on interviews and other marketing elements to be on the site to promote Arthur and his books further. Arthur had agreed to them but felt a bit... used for portraying himself for the public to know and not to know at the same time.

Kiku was the driving force of Arthur's publishing and also was the one who discovered Arthur's writing abilities. As an old friend and business partner though, Kiku could be firm and forceful when he needed to be, a value Arthur truly appreciated.

Even though that meant attempts to convince the English author to continue to write for Francis's series were going to be harder to resist.

Arthur sighed and walked back to his room, unbuttoning his clothes from the previous day. He'd fallen asleep on his couch in his clothes, too tired to care to change after spending the majority of the night finishing his final novel.

After a quick shower, Arthur dressed and checked the weather. It was late afternoon and Arthur felt as if he was behind. Sleeping in late was never part of his schedule but the sun was already high in the sky, hidden behind the clouds, when he awoke. Arthur tutted when he glanced at the clock again and grabbed his house keys. He pulled on a rain jacket (the forecast was bad today) and walked out the front door, locking it behind him. He started walking to the small, remote train station and bought himself a ticket.

As he waited for the train, he glanced around the familiar station. The station was almost always empty, the occasional visitors marveled at how 'cute' and 'quaint' it was. Residents rarely met each other on the train. Arthur always liked the station because it served its purpose perfectly with nothing extra. There were no coffee shops or photo booths and everyone arrived and departed on time. Arthur was not a fan of most modern escapes.

Then the train rattled up and the doors slid open. Arthur stepped on and found a seat. There was only one other rider in the train car but Arthur didn't look at him. He kept to himself as well and the two rode in silence. Arthur daydreamed about other possible plots for future books, and then about an idea partner.

When the train stopped at the main station, Arthur stood and filed out, ready for fresh air again. He walked down the street, not worried at all about the distance between the train station and his destination.

All in all, Arthur was content.

Kiku turned around to face Arthur, holding up a finger before Arthur could speak.

"Mmhm. Yes. No! Tell them no. Well we have to make deadline. No, I didn't set the deadline, my boss did. No, I can't extend it." Kiku paused. "I know. I'll talk to him." He nodded and then hung up his phone, setting it on the desk and sighing. Kiku looked at Arthur and sighed again.

"… Everything alright?" Arthur asked. Kiku was Arthur's friend before his editor. He was short, Japanese, and very straight laced. His almond brown eyes missed nothing and he was Arthur's first fan. They had met during a house exchange program and had met in the airport. Arthur spent a week in Japan in Kiku's house while Kiku spent a little over a week and a half in England in Arthur's house. The last half they spent together, getting to know each other better.

They were both awkward and yet forceful and deliberate. Kiku was passive while Arthur was aggressive (but only when necessary, as Arthur said). Their half-week was spent quietly sipping teas and trading poetry, teaching each other their cultures and bonding. Arthur was the one who'd trusted Kiku with his rough draft first.

Their business relationship was as good as their normal friendship.

"Things are fine. Other authors are not as... punctual as you." Kiku smiled slightly and organized a few paper stacks on his desk. "You didn't have to come to the offices... I could've paid a visit after work."

Arthur shrugged. "I had to get out. My house is... feeling empty and it's dreadfully lonely..."

"Ah..." Kiku said, understanding. Sometimes Kiku didn't like his house either because he claimed ghosts walked the hallways and kept him up at night. From what Kiku told him, Kiku used to be a young hermit, afraid to go outside and shut everyone out until one of Kiku's friends had literally pulled him out of his house and showed him all the wonderful things the world had to offer. Arthur had laughed a the time but in truth, he wished someone had done that for him too.

"You said you finished?" Kiku asked. He looked at Arthur who nodded and pulled the stuffed manila envelope.

"My series is ending." Arthur said, looking at Kiku very seriously.

"Alright..." Kiku said. He wasn't as happy as he was the first time Arthur's manuscript was finished. "I'll read it and edit it soon." He held out his hand and Arthur placed the packet in his hand. Kiku immediately slid the bounded pages out and flipped past the cover page and began to scan the first paragraph, the first page and then the first chapter.

"Sounds good so far." Kiku nodded. "I can't wait to read the rest." He smiled supportively and set the folder aside. Then he crossed his fingers and fell silent, looking at Arthur. "How have you been?"

Arthur smiled slightly. He was talking to his friend now.

"I am well. Getting the book done was... refreshing." He nodded and sighed in content. Francis would be gone now. However much people complained, he'd be done with him. No looking back.

"Ah, that's good," Kiku said. He paused then. "Would you like to get a bite to eat later? Work ends at five today."

"I would love to. Shall we go to the café on A400 and Ducannon Street? It's been a while since we've been there..."

"The National?" Kiku paused. "It will be nice to go there again..." He smiled and looked at the clock. "I shall see you there at... five thirty?."

Arthur nodded and then bid his friend good-bye, leaving the offices. Once again, he walked the streets alone but content.

_Maybe I'll go shopping for a bit?_ He mused to himself, looking for something to keep him busy for two hours. _The cat also needs some new toys, I think..._

The pet store wasn't but two blocks away and was filled with everything imaginable for pets ranging from aisles of leashes and harnesses to treat toys to keep pets entertained. Occasionally, Arthur heard a squeaky toy's harsh squeal from across the store but Arthur didn't mind. Keeping the fact he'd have to carry the purchases around afterwards in mind, Arthur did not buy the bag of cat food on sale but bought a packet of cat nip and a new ball with a bell inside. His cat, Elizabeth, was getting old and didn't play much but would enjoy an engaging toy to amuse her once in a while. He browed for a good while to kill time but eventually went to pay. The cashier was nice but curt and Arthur moved on to his next destination.

The bell rang when Arthur exited the store and Arthur stepped onto the street, glancing around. He figured he could take a nice walk in the Leicester Square Garden even if the weather had retired to its usual grey state.

He started the short walk, occasionally glancing at other people and nodding politely but didn't say anything. He commented mentally on the cars whizzing by but did not long for one to cut his walk short. The shops were open and inviting but Arthur wanted to stay outside, weather permitting. Arthur was still content.

Then his mobile rang.

He slid the rectangle out of his coat pocket, caller ID letting him know who it was.

"Are you sure you want to end the series, Arthur-san?"

Arthur sighed. Kiku had read it. Or at least glanced at chapter twenty-two.

"I am positive." Arthur said firmly. Kiku was silent for a while. Arthur had stopped walking.

"You know people will not be pleased?"

"I am sure." Another pause.

"Good luck. I will see you in forty-five minutes." Kiku hung up. Arthur continued to walk.

When he reached the park, he walked its perimeter for a while. Kiku did not sound mad (hardly anything made him mad) but he didn't sound pleased.

_If my editor isn't pleased, what are the readers going to think?_ Arthur wondered. _Will I ever sell another book?_ Arthur knew of plenty authors and people who'd had... media that had displeased their audience and he knew they hadn't had trouble with finances or reputation afterwards. Some had even become more popular with the discontinuation of their forms of expression. Arthur couldn't think of anyone at the moment, but he was sure there were some like that.

An hour soon passed and Arthur was going to be late to his dinner with Kiku. He walked quickly down the street but his thoughts were still tumbling around in his mind, worrying him and making him unintentionally stress himself. This was his series! He could do whatever he wanted with his characters!

Kiku was already sitting at a small table when Arthur walked in. Immediately, Arthur walked over after Kiku had spotted him and sat down, forcing himself to relax.

"I skimmed the chapters, Arthur-san," Kiku said after they'd ordered their dinners. Rice and roasted veggies for Kiku and fish n' chips for Art Arthur. "Wonderful writing as usual, except..." Kiku pulled the manuscript out and turned to the page with a blood red bookmark.

"I know," Arthur said. He had prepared for Kiku's criticisms. "I wanted him dead." Arthur was solid and would not change his mind.

"Arthur-san..." Kiku set the draft down and folded his fingers together again. He looked very calm and professional. "You don't make enough to stop writing. Your series, however good, is not enough for you to live off of..."

"I know. I won't stop writing. I just won't write with Francis anymore," Arthur nodded earnestly.

"But how do you know your next book or series will be enough? You might get some buzz from writing this series but if you end the series now, how do you know you can produce something equally as good but different?"

"I am a writer, Kiku." Arthur said, meeting the man's deep brown eyes. "Writing is a part of my life."

"But selling is just as important," Kiku countered, sitting back in his chair. He sighed but then smiled slightly. "I have faith in you, but I do not wish to see you regret your decisions."

"I won't," Arthur nodded and rubbed his cin. "I'm already developing another plot now." He said confidently as he lied through his teeth.

"Good. Let me know when you need an editor," Kiku smiled slightly.

Their food arrived then and they ate talking quietly among themselves about trivial things, enjoying the dinner together. Arthur was invited to travel with Kiku to stay in Japan for the summer and Arthur told him that he'd think about it. They talked of past novels and other authors, commenting on books previously read and listing recommendations of other literature. Arthur promised to read a Japanese manga called Shingeki no Kyojin where the plot and characters had some parallels to Arthur's series and Francis. Kiku had copies at his house and would lend the series to Arthur the next time they saw each other.

At eight o'clock, the two parted ways, and Arthur headed for home. The train ride home seemed different though. Arthur was not content.

He was lonely.

Nothing Elizabeth won't fix, Arthur thought as he imagined her twitching ears. She'll like her new toys.

Arthur watched his country whizz by the windows, blurring and melting together. Soon, the train emptied and he was one of five patrons still riding.

Something was unsetting Arthur.

He walked home alone, the vast countryside spreading itself for him. His house looked small on its small dirt road form the station, his white mailbox seeming to beckon him. Arthur walked past it though, he never checked the box, his mail was always slid through the mail slot in his door. The post man knew that.

Arthur unlocked the door and Elizabeth was waiting for him, waiting in her cat bed for him to come home. She mewled sleepily and Arthur patted her head, hanging his coat on the rack. He unpacked the cat toys and cat nip, tossing the musical, scented ball towards Elizabeth who sniffed it and batted at it a bit. Arthur got ready for a relaxing evening alone by prepping a pot of tea. He decided to actually try and brainstorm a few ideas. Kiku would be reading his novel now and making marks where spell check had missed errors.

The sunset beautifully that night, but Arthur did not see it. He had fallen asleep in his chair, his cat warming his lap and his tea cooling on the side table. An abandoned pad of paper and a pen had scattered at Arthur's feet having slipped from the author's grasp. The house was silent.

Arthur woke at exactly four in the morning. He woke slowly, sluggishly remembering where everything was and what had happened. His house was dark except the side table's yellow lamp. Arthur ran a hand through Elizabeth's soft fur, thinking groggily to himself.

_I never got the mail__,_ Arthur realized. He slowly moved Elizabeth off his lap, setting her on her bed, barely waking her. She was a heavy sleeper usually.

Arthur stood, grabbed a robe and stumbled out to his mail box. He didn't remember the mail had already been reviewed when he came home but he opened the mail box anyway.

Inside was a pale blue envelope, roughly the size of a standard birthday card. It was sealed with dark red wax with the imprint of a rose in it.

_Mr. Arthur Kirkland_, it said on the front in carefully, but elegantly, looped cursive.

Arthur retreated into his small house and stared at the envelope in wonder. He never got mail in his mail box, let alone so beautifully addressed to him. Only bills and other business matters had his real name on the envelopes, and they were always harsh, typed font.

Arthur used his letter opener to pry the flap open, his fingers running over the smooth paper.

Inside was a short letter in the same looped handwriting. Arthur's heart thumped wildly in his chest, his eyes widening.

_Bonjour,_

_My name is Francis Bonnefoy._

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**Reviews are love and equal faster updates.**

**Btw, I didn't mean to make it Attack on Titan, and the development of the PCA plot honestly had nothing to do with the AOT plot, I was just like "hey, I like AoT and somehow, the PCA plot is similar... Let's throw in a reference! Woo!"**


	3. Chapter 3

SO I FINALLY FINISHED THIS BEAST. It's not as long as I thought it would be but 5k word count is pretty good for me so… yeah! :D

Shout out to my good friend ScarletPrussia for taking time out of her day to read this over! Thank youuuuu so much, darling! *mwah mwah*

Finally, I started chapter 4 of PCA already so it's in the works but if you've been reading my stuff, you know that continuing series is really a challenge for me and also dialogue is my weakness so if things start getting wiggy, PLEASE don't hesitate to let me know and I will IMMEDIATELY change things. I want to be the best I can be and if I start getting lazy, that'd just be a shame and a waste of all of our time.

Anyway, I hope you enjoy this after the awful wait. Cheers!

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Many people didn't know that Arthur was gay. Arthur didn't intentionally hide it, but he didn't go around announcing his sexuality either. Arthur had dated few and had maintained lasting relationships even less.

'You're too isolated and quiet', Arthur had been told. 'You're stuck in the past and refuse to acknowledge some sort of event that happened'. Of course, the ones who'd told him that hadn't lasted either, but Arthur couldn't help but to start believing that something was wrong with him the more the same phrase was repeated.

The thing was, while many saw Francis as the perfect man, Arthur really didn't have a clue about what the 'perfect man' even was. Arthur just wanted someone who'd be with him, someone to love him unconditionally. He wasn't too picky, he thought.

But now Arthur was meeting with Francis. Or at least someone named Francis. In a café in the city. And he was half an hour early.

_I wonder what he's like…_ Arthur thought. And then Arthur mentally slapped himself. This was probably a trick and Arthur was going to be sitting there like a fool.

Arthur stared out the window, leaning his chin on the palm of his hand. Outside, people hurried by, shielding themselves from the rain.

The day was not a pleasant one. Rain was coming down in a fast drizzle, too light to need an umbrella but too heavy for just a jacket. Rolls of thunder rattled the foundations of buildings and wary glances were sent to the sky.

The café was comfier that way. People were still working despite the weather and Arthur admired them for their dedication. He always grumbled and bickered when the weather was sour.

"Would you like something to drink?" A waitress appeared at the end of Arthur's booth, her pen poised. Her shoulders were spattered with dark circles from the rain and her hair pulled into a messy ponytail with small strands hanging around the sides of her face. She was young and still eager to work. Honest and hardworking eyes searched his figure.

Arthur turned from the window to look at her. "What types do you have?"

"Ah, would you like to see our selection?" she asked with a slight pause. Arthur nodded and she left, soon returning with a wood box with little tins of loose leaf tea. Surprised that it was actually loose leaf teas, Arthur chose the tin with vanilla beans and chai spices. The waitress nodded and went back to get the water. Arthur was left alone again.

Since when did he feel so lonely? Was he so desperate for companionship that he answered to a letter of a possible prank? He had no desire to talk to Kiku since he knew he'd only be questioned about The End and he had long spoiled the relationship with his brothers. Arthur was out of options.

So, here he was. Half of him wanted this to be real. He imagined being early to a date, waiting to exchange pleasantries with a lover. They'd have lunch together, eating hot soup and maybe having a bite of each others' pastries. He imagined they'd like earl grey, just because they liked the word 'earl'.

Arthur was brought out of his daydreams when the waitress set his tea down in front of him. She smiled and left, sliding a menu close, but Arthur knew he wouldn't be able to eat for his stomach was infested with too many butterflies.

That was when the door jingled with the bell affixed to the top and a new stranger stepped in.

He was tall with chin length blond waves and beautifully rich cyan eyes. The small stubble of his jaw accented his cheek bones and strong features. His clothes rich with style and uncurious fabrics. He could not be anything but French.

_He_ was Francis Bonnefoy.

Arthur felt himself stand up as if he were connected to puppet strings. His eyes were wider, his heart thumping strongly in his chest. He watched as those clear blue eyes raked over everyone in the café before landing on Arthur. A wide, charming smile spread over the Frenchman's face and he strode elegantly over to Arthur. He was eye to eye with Arthur, aquamarine meeting cadmium green.

"Bonjour, mon cher," Francis said. Arthur was frozen in shock. He was just like Arthur had imagined. It was as if the man had indeed stepped right out of Arthur's books. Francis reached to take Arthur's hand gently and brought it up to his mouth, brushing his lips against Arthur's hand. Arthur felt his cheeks heat up and he came back to his senses.

"What do you think you're doing?" he sputtered, snatching his hand back. He took a step back, feeling a scowl deepen his features. Francis's almost smug smile did not waver.

"Shall we sit?" he gestured to the small booth Arthur previously occupied. Arthur blinked a few times and nodded, sitting automatically. Francis sat down across from him and smiled. "Mon ami, you are staring." Arthur mentally shook himself. Arthur began.

"I did not expect you to… look so much like him…" he raked his eyes over Francis. Everything, from his hair color to the structure of his face, was spot on. Too close to be a coincidence. Arthur hadn't expected this Francis to look exactly as he imagined and Francis wasn't 'god-like' but he looked perfect and exact.

Francis smiled. "Thank you," he waved over a waitress and ordered a glass of water for himself, smiling charmingly before looking back at Arthur. "Thank you for accepting my invitation. I got nervous when the lady at the post office said you never responded to fan mail." Arthur noted his accent and then how it didn't annoy him as much as other French accents usually did.

"Yes, I don't respond to fan mail." Arthur confirmed. "I have a PO box for a reason." Arthur checked his box biweekly. In the beginning, he had to check it every half week and then weekly, depending on the trends of how popular his book was. Some months, the books were selling out, other times, the books sat on the shelves, untouched, until discounts were made by the book stores.

"Yes, I know. The lady at the post office gave me your address because I told her my letter was extra special," Francis nodded. It had been lucky Arthur had checked his mail box. He must've gone a good few months since he last checked his actual mail box.

"So… who exactly are you?" Arthur asked. He realized he had been holding his breath, his green eyes following every move of the Frenchman.

Francis took a deep breath, suddenly looking nervous. "My name is Francis Bonnefoy," he said. "And I am in love with the author, Arthur Kirkland."

The world seemed to slow down then. Suddenly, people moved in slow motion, like they were moving through molasses. Car wheels nearly stopped, rain drops were halted, suspended and glistening. However, Arthur's heard was the only thing that beat faster. His blood rushed to his cheeks.

"Arthur? Arthur, are you okay?" Francis's voice was muffled. "Arthur, please respond…" A warm hand embraced his own and he snapped back to reality. The rain drops continued their steady barrage against London. Then, Arthur exploded out of the booth seat, ripping his hand from Francis's.

"Who the bloody hell are you?" His cheeks were bright red and burning hot, his body trembling a bit. His brow was lowered, his eyes widening in disbelief. "I don't even know you! Who confesses like that?" Francis looked at him, shocked, and just as wide-eyed as Arthur. He tried to calm down the author.

"Arthur, please, I-"

"No! You're a liar!" Arthur stepped back. The patrons of the café turned to look at him, surprised and interested about what the ruckus was. "I don't even know who you are, you trickster! You don't even know me." He was confused. Who was this man to just outright confess to him? While Francis had his character's face, it felt wrong. This man was probably crazy, and here Francis was, confessing his love to someone he didn't even know.

Arthur turned and fled, shoving the café door open and running into the rain.

"Hey!" Francis called out, standing and running after Arthur. Then he ran back and tossed a few pounds onto the table, apologizing quickly and then running back out. "Arthur! Attendez!"

Arthur ran to the train station. He ran as fast as he could, nearly sliding around the corners but made it to the train before its doors closed, narrowly sliding through the closing doors. He was wet, his hair damp and wilted, and he felt the coldness of the rain seep through his clothes and he began to shiver. He looked out of the train window when he had taken his seat, seeing a dismayed and soaked Frenchman, standing on the platform. Arthur slid lower in his seat as the train pulled out of the station, hiding out of the sight of the Frenchman's eyes.

_I ran from him. Brilliant,_ Arthur, he thought sarcastically. _The bloody frog… he… he confessed though! What was I supposed to do?_ The thoughts tumbled around his brain. It had to be a trick. Just a ploy to mess with him. Again. But then again, who was he? Was he really named Francis Bonnefoy? Arthur wanted to believe it but he also wanted it to be a dream. Francis was his character, not an actual person. _What I did was right. It was probably some bad tea, or a crazy dream_.

Arthur went home assuring himself he'd wake up soon. The letter was a farce, the whole experience just a figment of his imagination.

Elizabeth greeted him with a quiet mewl from her bed. He patted her and looked at the clock. It was only 12:30 in the afternoon but Arthur felt fatigued.

_I'll just write about this_, Arthur thought. _Maybe I'll embellish it a bit and turn it into a new story_. He went to his office to get his laptop and brought it back out to the kitchen. Elizabeth jumped up on to the table to push herself under Arthur's hand and settled beside him, her side pressed against Arthur's arm. Arthur opened his computer and logged in but was met with the past.

_Francis woke with a start. He was warm and sticky with sweat, breathing hard. The last dream had been of O'Connell. He had laughed at Francis, always taunting. Always teasing and playing._

_He couldn't forget the last time he'd talked to O'Connell through his own phone he carried around in his pocket. And at the scene of his most recent crime at that. But the words O'Connell had whispered into his ear had chilled him more than any weather or atrocious crime could._

The next will be yours.

_What had those words meant? Francis knew that O'Connell was leading him on, killing more people the more Francis investigated into the killer's "prizes" for the press._

_Francis tried to run a hand over his chin and realized he was holding something. Reaching over with his other hand, he turned on the bedside lamp, and then launched himself out of his bed, screaming._

_Red. He saw red. It stained his night clothes, the cotton sheets, his trembling hands. He threw the knife he originally clutched in his hands at his feet, horrified and disgusted. He screamed again when he saw his bed properly. His sheets had been dyed crimson red, but he didn't care. Among the sheets, there lay Camille, her eyes wide, her mouth open in panic and a bright jagged ribbon of red cut across her neck. Nothing else in the room was disturbed and only Francis's screams could be heard._

Arthur closed the document with a single, sharp click of his mouse pad. It had saved previously and it disappeared from the screen. Arthur stared at his blank desktop.

That Francis had been real. No matter how much Arthur wished otherwise, the afternoon's events were real. Francis Bonnefoy was real, Arthur concluded. With a cynical sigh. To make matters worse, he'd also ran out on someone who'd just confessed. It didn't matter who he was, having someone have such a drastic reaction would be devastating.

What could Arthur do though? He didn't know anything about this Francis or any way to get a hold of him. Francis probably didn't want to talk to him anyway.

Arthur sighed again. He didn't know what to do. He had so many questions and had no way to get the answers. He felt tired, aged and confused. His limbs got heavy, heavy in conjunction with his eyelids. He blinked slowly and finally lay down on his bed, setting his computer away, his body sinking into the mattress. He yawned. I'll think of this later.

Arthur woke to the sound of someone knocking on his door. Blearily, he rolled out of his bed, scrambling for the light switch. He could feel his hair going in all directions, and heavy bags forming under his swollen eyes. Somehow, he felt worse than he felt before going to sleep. The clock said 9:43.

He trudged to the door, yawning and running a hand through his hair in an effort to tame it a bit. He opened the door and looked up to find Kiku standing on the door step.

"I am sorry I am visiting you so late, Arthur…" Kiku said first. "May I come in? This will only take a short amount of time." Arthur nodded and stood aside so Kiku could enter his abode. Kiku stepped across the threshold and pulled off his coat, hanging it on the nearby carved wood coat rack that Arthur had received as a gift from his mother for his twentieth birthday. "I wanted to tell you first," Kiku said after.

"Tell me what?" Arthur asked, shutting the door after feeling the cold, wet air flood in when he opened the door.

"I will be going to a business conference in America." Kiku turned to look at Arthur, his eyes meeting Arthur's green eyes steadily. "The Americans are holding a writing and publishing convention in New York this year."

Arthur's thoughts turned to him at the mention of the faraway country. His broad shoulders, the wheat field blonde hair, those cerulean eyes that looked for Arthur's forest green. Arthur thought back to his accent and the way he could make Arthur's heart flutter. That was a long time ago, though, when Arthur was starting to gain popularity. He was nostalgic but Kiku pressed on. "The committee wanted me to ask you if you wanted to join me."

Arthur snapped out of his doze to hear the question. "… To America?" Arthur asked. "Who will take care of Elizabeth?"

Kiku smiled. "I have a dear friend who loves cats. He will be willing to take care of Elizabeth if you are willing to be apart from her for some time. The cost will even be covered by the committee as they are paying for the entire trip for your success." Kiku was pleased at how Arthur seemed to brighten at the thought. He knew America held some kind of importance to the Brit, but he didn't know exactly why Arthur's brow furrowed whenever anything American was mentioned.

"Well… I suppose I should get away for a bit… It has been a while…" Arthur mused to himself. But what about his situation with Francis? Would Kiku call him crazy? "Uh… Kiku?"

"Yes?"

"… On another note… what if Francis was real?"

There was a long pause.

"What?"

"What if there really was a Francis Bonnefoy?" Arthur asked, slightly nervous. He kept his eyes trained on Kiku, looking for any sign of skepticism or suspicion. "Someone contacted me as Francis and I met him and he looked exactly like I thought and I don't know…" Arthur let out quickly, trying to explain himself before Kiku might turn tail in fear of the suddenly crazed and, quite possibly, delusional author.

"Wait, someone contacted you as Francis?" Kiku asked, caught off guard by the sudden change of topic. "From your books?"

"Yes. And… he told me he was in love with me," Arthur said quietly.

"Oh, how romantic…" Kiku mused. He thought of how red he knew Arthur could get and wished he'd been there to see the confession. "What was he like?"

"Romantic?" Arthur sputtered. "He practically blurted it out! We had just met!"

"Arthur," Kiku said, gently. "What did you say? Think about how much courage he had to say that to you…" Arthur felt his lips curl inwards and showed his guilt by staring at his loafers.

"Well… He was… nice, but… that isn't the way you get to know someone!" Arthur huffed stubbornly.

"Have you talked to him since the meeting?"

"Arthur paused. "I don't know how to contact him… I ran away after he confessed… It was only today."

Kiku sighed. "Do you want to contact him again?"

The author stopped once again, thinking.

"I… I do want to apologize but… I don't know what to say in response to his… confession."

"Maybe it's best that you do have time to think then… We don't leave until the last week of September so you have time to try to find him again. You can at least apologize then…" Kiku nodded. "Maybe he will contact you himself? When he is ready?"

"I hope so…" Arthur sighed, calming down. He felt way too guilty over hurting the Frenchman and bolting like a scared child.

"Again, forgive me for intruding so late." Kiku said then, breaking Arthur's concentration from his self pity. "I will see you again soon," Kiku bowed politely and then went for the door before pausing. "Your book is scheduled to come out next week. They have already begun to print pages… The cover is going to be done by Yao again."

"Ah, I liked the previous ones… Thanks, Kiku." Arthur nodded to the Japanese man. The style of the covers were not what Arthur had expected, but he admired how different they were and modern they looked without looking ancient.

Kiku nodded and then left, leaving the Englishman to play about with his thoughts again. The Brit's thoughts were less chaotic and stormy but he still had to find a way to contact Francis. What if Francis didn't want anything to do with him ever again? Arthur didn't think he could stand to have his guilt over Francis weigh on him forever.

What about Arthur's mail box? After Kiku was gone, he rushed out to the old mounted box but it was empty. Maybe… Arthur could visit the post office and talk to the lady there. Francis had said the lady had passed the letter onto Arthur. Maybe Francis had given some contact to her in case Arthur was unavailable? It was wishful thinking but Arthur couldn't help but to hope.

* * *

A week passed and still no word from the possibly fake Frenchman. _Was it a dream? Had I imagined it all? Something slipped into my tea?_ Arthur wondered.

There was no trace of Francis anywhere.

Arthur had checked the phone books, searched online and even went back to the café the two had met at. Nothing.

Francis hadn't tried to contact Arthur either and the author fretted that his act of panic had permanently scared off the Frenchman

Maybe he didn't want to see Arthur again.

"I might've just scared off the only person who said they loved me…" Arthur thought as he sat in his living room. He was feeling sorry for himself as he lethargically stroked Elizabeth's fur. What an awful turn of events, he thought. It's my fault but… still. He contacted me once and now he won't do it again? Some love that is… I'm probably better off without him anyway! Arthur finally resolved, even though his consciousness told him otherwise.

Elizabeth nuzzled against the Englishman's hand when he stopped petting her. He sat almost dazed and confused. What was he to do now? He'd be leaving in less than a month's time and he doubted Francis, or whoever he was, would wait until Arthur returned from the States.

_I can't just sit here and wait though!_ Arthur huffed as he moved a protesting Elizabeth off him and stood to get his light trench coat. _Perhaps a walk in the city is needed…_

It took him no time to nearly blend into the city once again. The day was shaded by clouds and the air felt heavy with the impending rain. Arthur could see people in their flats watching things on the telly, ankles propped up on their ottomans. Not many people were out on the streets but cars whizzed by, taxis honking and swerving occasionally for a faster route. The city was used to such weather but Arthur felt like it needed some light.

He walked with his hands stuffed deep into his pockets, his eyes darting around; looking at all the faces he passed but was never satisfied with what he saw. _What are the odds? Why do I even try?_

Still, he tried. He asked a few people if their heard of a real-life Francis Bonnefoy but none had any idea of what he was talking about, most walking away with expressions of concern shot at the author over their retreating shoulders. But Arthur pressed on and went back to the café to check. Still nothing.

Arthur muttered a string of various colorful words, directed at the Frenchman. This is why he didn't trust the French. He sat at the table they had sat at that day. He ran fingers over the placemat across from him. There was so much mystery surrounding Francis and Arthur hated unsolvable mysteries.

"Bloody hell!" Arthur burst out then, pounding his fist on the table, making the silverware tremble and the cups shiver. "I'll kill him again when I see him!" People looked at him in alarm, their conversations breaking off and then started murmuring to each other again. A waiter hustled over but kept his distance, speaking in a low voice.

"Sir… You are causing a scene…" Quite subtly, the waiter gestured towards the door and Arthur left in a flurry, angered but also sorry he'd disturbed the peace. He looked down at his feet as he walked along the street back to the train station. _What do I do?_ He sighed, confused and almost dazed. The train ride was a blur and Arthur almost missed his stop because of his trance.

He arrived and, machine-like, went through his evening routine. Coat. Kettle. Bathroom to brush his teeth and take out his contacts. Retrieve his latest reading material. Finally, the bedroom.

But when Arthur entered his sleeping quarters, he became immediately aware of another presence. Arthur frowned and looked around, his eyes then landing on the familiar form of another human.

Arthur screamed loudly in surprise but was cut off when the person clamped their hand over Arthur's mouth, wrapping another around Arthur's waist, pulling him close. Green eyes swirled around wildly, trying to identify the intruder and struggle to get away at the same time.

"Shh, shhhh, I'm not going to hurt you!" A distinct voice said into Arthur's ear. The author stopped long enough to realize who it was before kneeing the Frenchman in the stomach and to retreat out of the binding arms.

"What the sodding hell do you think you're doing in my bloody house?" Arthur backed away from Francis cautiously, snatching up the nearest object he could find, which happened to be a wand souvenir from the ever popular Harry Potter theme park. J.K. Rowling was one of Arthur's favorite authors and he felt proud that one of the most well known, if not the most, and successful authors had come from his country.

He pointed the wand menacingly at Francis. "Explain or this is going up your nose!" Francis was almost as wide-eyed as Arthur, his hands up in surrender.

"… I don't think that would be very pleasant, but I wanted to talk again. I waited some time for you to calm down…" Francis said slowly. Arthur swallowed nervously.

"Why didn't you just send me another letter if you wanted to meet?"

"I was afraid I'd come at a bad time and you'd run away again…" Francis looked away nervously. "I saw you in the café earlier, but you were leaving as I was entering, but you didn't notice…"

Arthur was silent for a while. "Are you really Francis Bonnefoy?"

There was another pause. "Yes."

"Okay." Arthur swallowed, a bit of nervousness disappearing. "Okay…" he let out a breath. "How'd you get into my house?"

"Your door was open. But!" Francis raised his hands again when Arthur gave him a sardonic look. "I didn't walk in like I owned the place. It started to rain-"

"No surprise there," Arthur cut in, quickly.

"And I forgot an umbrella. Your house needs some sort of awning or porch or something…"

"Oh yes, so that your pretty head doesn't melt in the rain," Arthur rolled his eyes and sighed. "Disappearing for a while wasn't your best move, Francis."

"I know, don't worry," Francis said. He lowered his hands again and stepped closer to Arthur. "I hope you'll let me… get to know you more."

Arthur didn't know what to do now. Here, Francis was here he was, alive, in front of him, finally. He felt Francis's eyes on him. Expectant and ready.

"I-I… I'm sorry…" Arthur got out first. He looked down in shame. "I'm sorry I ran out on you before." Francis reached over to Arthur and tilted his chin up with one hand.

"It's not a problem, now. I am glad you didn't kick me out the moment you recognized me…" Francis smiled. Arthur became aware of his thumping heartbeat again.

"Uh- um…" Arthur pulled away from him and walked to the kitchen, retrieving the screaming kettle from the stove. Francis followed him leaning against the counter, watching Arthur prepare his tea. Arthur felt self conscious.

"Would you like any tea?" He asked, trying to fill the silence.

"I remember you always had a cup of tea next to you as you wrote…" Francis said quietly. "Usually an English tea. Always loose leaf."

"Is that a yes?" Arthur said, frowning a little. A part of Arthur still denied Francis's existence in his world. Though most people could easily guess that Arthur would have tea when he could. He was a true English stereotype sometimes.

"Oui, merci," Francis nodded. Arthur poured an extra cup.

Silence again.

"Are you staying anywhere?" Arthur asked.

"Yes, in a little inn inside the city but… I am running out of money. My wallet only came with a couple hundred pounds and a card with a few thousand in an account." Arthur remembered that while the fictional Francis dreamed of living in a high class penthouse with swanky draperies and plenty of rare wines, journalism did not yield too much money.

"I'll see if I can get something arranged later… Staying in the city is rather expensive… You can stay here for now, if you'd like…" Arthur said. It wasn't as if Arthur was eager to have the Frenchman with him. The fact that his creation was standing in the same room as him was shocking enough.

"Thank you," Francis said, grateful. His blue eyes happier than before. He moved to wrap his arms around Arthur but Arthur moved away instinctively.

"No." He held up a hand, frowning slightly. "I don't do physical contact." That was such a lie though. Arthur was very physical in his relationships. He liked small touches but not PDA. He was very eager in the bedroom, especially when he was "in the mood". His previous partners also had told him he was a rather aggressive (or firm), but talented, kisser.

Francis looked disappointed but lowered his arms. "Well, thank you anyway." Arthur nodded and sipped his tea. Silence for the umpteenth time.

Thankfully, there was a sharp ringing sound that cut the silence. Arthur nearly jumped and answered the phone.

"Arthur? It's Kiku. I am planning the trip now and booking the flight and hotels. Still interested?" Arthur glanced at Francis. What would Francis do while Arthur was away? Then a crazy idea popped into his head. "Would the committee allow plus-ones?" There was a pause.

"You've never traveled with a boyfriend before, Arthur." Kiku sounded surprised.

"No, no, not a boyfriend," Francis looked up and then raised a perfect eyebrow. "It's Francis." Arthur took a deep breath. "He's real."

"Really? It wasn't a prank?" Kiku sounded… excited? "Are you really going to be taking him to America with us?"

"… yes?"

"Have you verified this?" Kiku sounded more excited than when a new manga came out. And that was saying something.

"I'm pretty sure," Arthur glanced back at Francis again.

"And you're taking him with you? To America?" Kiku asked.

"Yes," Arthur said, blinking a few times, after realizing what he'd just said. "I want to get to know him… And… Keep an eye on him." He saw Francis smile at him, pleased he was going to be given a chance. Francis mouthed 'thank you' at Arthur.

"I'll order three tickets to America then," Kiku said and then hung up, leaving Arthur and Francis silent and alone together.

"Thank you Arthur," Francis said, quietly and formally.

"We need to solve the issue of your money though," Arthur said, continuing. He didn't look at Francis directly but then he glanced up at him through his lashes, not wanting to give the Frenchman the benefit of knowing he was being stared at.

Francis smiled at him. "I can make money. I know of places in France that would pay me a lot of money for my services."

Arthur made a face. "Please tell me you aren't a stripper."

"What? No!" Francis looked offended. "Cuisiner, mon ami, cooking! I remember I cooked before I came to England." Pause. "Though if you think I could…" Arthur cleared his throat sharply and sighed.

"That's out of the question though we're not in France right now." Arthur thought of many places that would take a Frenchman. "Perhaps just be a waiter, for now?"

"I could do that," Francis sighed and went to sit on Arthur's bed. He smiled slyly then. "Will I be sleeping here?"

"No, I have a guest bedroom." Arthur's eyebrows drawing together slightly. "You should get your belongings from the inn though."

Francis looked disappointed but didn't look fazed by Arthur's rejection. "Alright, I'll go do that… it does look like you haven't used your guest room in a while."

Arthur nodded and the two went their separate ways from the author's bedroom. Arthur listened to Francis leave his house and had half a mind to lock the door behind the Frenchman, go to sleep, and hope that everything was a dream.

However, Arthur didn't and after changing the guest room sheets, nearly half an hour after the Frenchman left, he returned.

"The trains really do remind me of Paris, though. I did not know they ran this far outside of London. And so late in the evening too!" Francis gushed, strangely chatty. He chattered as he made his way to the guest bedroom, set his things down and walked to the bathroom to finish his night routine.

Arthur felt obliged to listen but couldn't help but to let his mind drift through his own thoughts.

"Good night Arthur Kirkland," Francis said after a break in his compliments about London. Arthur realized Francis had been silently watching the author while the two stood in the bathroom.

"Oh, good night… Francis," Arthur said after some hesitation. He nodded and lifted his own tooth brush to his teeth. Francis shuffled out of the bathroom and Arthur was left with his reflection.

Get it together, Arthur thought, looking at his reflection's dark circled eyes. He looked tired. Get some rest and start packing for America. The flight is going to be long but he'd have Francis to talk to. Maybe he could figure out how this all happened. Maybe… It wasn't a hoax. Maybe… Francis was real.

* * *

O'Connell sat as his computer screen, looking at the Japanese man's own computer screen. He watched as the mouse cursor moved to order one extra ticket to America. He watched as unseen fingers punched in credit card numbers and watched as the command to print the confirmed tickets was sent to the printer across the Atlantic.

Carefully, he closed his computer and looked at the cork board that hung above his desk. Pictures, note book pages, and a map were tacked on, creating constellations of paper and red string. It was very reminiscent of the map Francis had before in his office of journalism O'Connell stood slowly and pulled the picture of the English writer off the board.

He was coming to America, and now, O'Connell didn't have to wait much longer. Soon, he would meet with the only two men he knew best.


	4. Chapter 4

**Sorry it took so long to update this. I'll keep the A/N short.**

**Once again, thanks so much to my Beta, Scarlet Prussia!**

* * *

Arthur shifted nervously in the airport. He could not focus on the words of his book and sighed.

"Nervous?" Francis asked. He sat next to the author while he read the paper. Concerned and curious blue eyes looked Arthur over.

"Not really. Just a little travel anxiety," Arthur replied after a bit. Really, his nervousness stemmed from the impending arrival of Kiku. Kiku was running late so they did not go through security together. He was on his way and then he would meet Francis.

Not that Kiku was a radical thinker, no, quite the opposite, but Arthur still worried. For some reason.

"Arthur?" He heard a voice behind him. Both blonds turned and Arthur saw his old friend, carry on bag in one hand and a travel jacket in the other. He was dressed in his usual business attire of slacks, white button up shirt and suspenders.

Arthur smiled gently. "Hello, Kiku." The Englishman glanced once at Francis but kept his eyes on Kiku. "How was security? We got through pretty quickly..."

"It was fine. Is that... Francis?" Kiku nodded at the Frenchman.

Arthur glanced at Francis again. "The one and only." Francis smiled, trying to be friendly. Kiku looked like he had been shocked, his eyes wide, his mouth slightly open.

"He's... perfect!" Kiku's eyes sparkled and he walked over quickly to Francis, looking him directly in the face. "Just as you described on paper!" Arthur was taken aback by Kiku's excitement. He had rarely seen Kiku so worked up and eager.

"Thank you...?" Francis smiled, a little taken aback too.

"Can you act?" Kiku asked, almost before Francis had finished. Kiku had a certain twinkle in his eye that Arthur had only seen when Kiku talked about certain manga and anime.

"Uhh... I have no idea... I never have tried..." Francis said awkwardly.

"Just think, Arthur!" Kiku said, euphoric and fired up. "Just think! _The Knife_, now a major motion picture! Starring... Francis Bonnefoy himself!"

A movie? Of his book? That would certainly bring in more money but Arthur did not really want to have to hide his face any more than he already did and... he really didn't want to broadcast that Francis was actually real...

"Maybe..." Arthur smiled kindly.

"Flight 113 is ready to board, please have your boarding passes ready," the announcer at the desk called. Arthur and Francis rose, gathered their belongings and proceeded to the gate while Kiku trailed behind. Arthur mouthed 'sorry' to Francis who, in turn, smiled at him and shrugged. They handed their boarding passes and then were seated in a reasonable amount of time.

London to New York would take about seven and a half hours and then they would just take a taxi from the airport to the hotel.

When they were seated and settled, they all sighed in relief and waited until the plane was ready to take off. Clear skies (for once) and good hearts assured the trio the flight would be successful.

"So... tell me about yourself, Francis," Kiku said once they were in the air safely.

"I... really can't. I don't know much myself," Francis sounded regretful. "I don't remember more than a month back. I know I am Francis Bonnefoy. I am French but I speak both English and French and I can cook."

"You have amnesia?" Kiku asked surprised.

"Well... It's like amnesia but I have memories of doing things but no time frame." Kiku and Arthur were and looked confused. "I remember myself as a child but I do not know how far back it was."

Arthur and Kiku glanced at each other. Could Francis be a fraud, still? Arthur imagined all sorts of scenarios of how Francis could actually not be Francis.

"Well... what brought you to England if you are French?" Kiku asked and Arthur tensed slightly between the two.

"I found a copy of Arthur's books in my Paris flat and... well; my memories were very... similar to Arthur's character, Francis..." Francis nodded."I don't know of a serial killer and I am no journalist, nor have I ever had a wife, but the memories of Francis from your books are mine as well." Francis's eyes met with Arthur's. "It is very strange... It is like he knows me more than I know myself."

Kiku went silent for a while, thinking, and Arthur dove into his own thoughts as well. Francis and the Francis from his book were almost the same but it was like one as the model of the other. But how could Arthur have possibly known of the real Francis and had replicated him into print without Francis knowing himself? Could the fictional Francis be inspiration for the real Francis's memories and demeanor?

"Strange, isn't it?" Kiku whispered to Arthur. "Who do you think he is?" Arthur glanced at the Frenchman who was currently talking to the flight attendant about what drink he'd like.

"I don't know but... we need to watch him carefully..." Arthur whispered back. Kiku nodded and then paused.

"... I booked us for two rooms so... you're going to have to share a room with him," Kiku told him gingerly. Arthur let the words sink in and then gave him a dry look.

"When I said we need to watch him carefully, I didn't mean that closely."

"I know but... I do not know him very well and... I only booked a double and a single." Kiku was tight lipped. "I am sorry, Arthur..."

"It's fine... I'll make it work..." Arthur shrugged but internally was smacking his head against a wall. Of course something like this would happen. Francis wasn't horrible to live with as Arthur had found out the time between Francis's appearance at his house and when it was actually time to go to America, but Arthur had to get used to sharing his space with someone again. The last time, it had been... with _him_. It took time with Francis but eventually Arthur remembered that someone else was living in his house again.

Though Francis did what he could to help. He cooked most of the meals (as Francis thought Arthur's cooking was dreadful), helped Arthur tend to his garden, and helped with buying groceries. For a stranger, he was usually agreeable and fairly wise. But what Arthur noticed a lot was how he was around the author. Francis would go out of his way to do nice things for Arthur. One day, it was making Arthur's favorite meals, another day; it was to fill a vase full of English roses, merely stating that Arthur might've liked them "because everyone liked roses".

What were a few more weeks in a hotel with Francis?

* * *

Nearly eight, long hours later, the trio's plane landed on the tarmac. Everyone rose once they had parked at the terminal, the tired and weary passengers ready to stretch their legs and be free of the plane's confines.

"Wow... That... was long," Francis said, tiredly.

"No shit, Sherlock," Arthur said, the bags under his eyes more prevalent than before. He hadn't been able to sleep a wink and had spent most of the trip trying to resist the urge to run around on the plain or rip the door off the emergency exit and fling himself out into the cold abyss.

"Let's just get our bags and call that taxi..." Kiku said, remaining calm, though his shoulders sagged from the weight for fatigue.

The three nearly stumbled off the plane and walked through the brightly-lit terminal, heading towards baggage claim. They hardly spoke and occasionally shared glances and nods.

When they retrieved their bags from the carousel, they walked outside, watching as cars occasionally pulled up to the curb and took people and their bags in, whisking them away from the airport.

Kiku rose his hand slightly, fore finger extended and a taxi cab pulled up shortly after. Kiku handed the name of the hotel and its address to the cabbie and the driver nodded. He waited until the luggage and all the people were inside and then drove in the direction of the hotel.

They arrived nearly half an hour later and they all stepped out. Kiku paid the cabbie, checked them all in and then opened to door for Francis and Arthur to their room.

"Oh, _mon Dieu_, a bed!" Francis sighed, going in first. Kiku smiled tiredly and handed Arthur the two room keys.

"Sleep well, Arthur," he nodded and then went to room next to theirs. Arthur nodded and went in, throwing his coat onto the chair back, looking around the hotel room.

It was a very nice hotel. Windows on the far wall extended from the ceiling to about ankle height with heavy, patterned drapes hanging to the sides. The carpeting below Arthur's feet was soft and almost fluffy. Three lamps glowed gently in three corners of the room and a coffee maker sat on top of a microwave and a small mini-fridge.

Francis was lying on one of the two double sized beds, spread eagle on his stomach with his head to the side. Arthur caught himself staring at the Frenchman's face and sighed, hoisting his suitcase up on the luggage rack. Even though he was tired, Arthur liked to stick to his routine.

As Arthur was brushing his teeth, Francis came into the bathroom, yawning.

"You're dedicated..." he said after glancing at Arthur. "Sometimes I skip brushing when I'm tired..."

"That's disgusting..." Arthur frowned. "But... I do it too sometimes..." He sighed and finished before storing his toothbrush and toothpaste away. Francis yawned again and washed his face before going back into the room and coming back with a tube. Arthur watched him in fascination as Francis squirted some white cream out of the small tube and rubbed it on his face.

"What is that?" Arthur asked.

"Moisturizer," Francis said simply. There was a long pause.

"Why?"

"To hydrate the skin. No one likes dry skin," Francis rubbed his hands over his face until the cream disappeared. "See? Feel." Francis took Arthur's hand after a pause and placed Arthur's palm against his own cheek.

Francis's cheek was smooth and soft, not sticky. Francis's stubble brushed against Arthur's palm and Arthur couldn't stop himself from gently rubbing his thumb over the warm skin under his fingertips.

Francis leaned into Arthur's hand, leaning into the author's warm hand.

They stood like that before Arthur came to his senses and took his hand away but did not rip his hand away like before.

"U-Um... well... good night," Arthur said awkwardly and then shuffled backwards, away from Francis. He felt his cheeks warm up and he quickly changed into his pajamas.

Francis came in while Arthur was changing his shirt and he caught him staring at Arthur's back when Francis glanced over. Quickly, he buttoned up the rest of the buttons and climbed onto his bed. He sat close to his pillows and pulled the sheets out from under him and then slid under. Sighing, he turned out the bedside lamp, snuck a glance at Francis (who was getting into his own bed after changing), and then let his eyelids slip shut.

* * *

Arthur didn't wake until about six in the morning when the sun was just barely peaking over the horizon. Arthur did not see the sunrise though because his vision was blocked by the sleeping figure of a certain Frenchman.

Arthur's eyes snapped open, eyebrows arching and then limbs flailing.

"What the bloody-?" He yelled scrambling to get away, his legs getting tangled in the sheets. He tripped backwards, yelping as he went careening off the bed. His legs ripped the sheets from the Frenchman's body.

Francis woke with a yell and a cry of protest. "_Quoi_?"

Arthur leapt up after detangling himself, pointing an accusatory finger. "What do you think you're doing in my bed?" His face was red with embarrassment and annoyance, but not quite anger.

"The real question, Arthur, is why are you in mine. I was simply sleeping and you-" Francis looked around. "Oops."

"Who told you that you could just climb into my bed?" Arthur scowled.

"Oh, no one," Francis said, indignant, but calm. "I went to the bathroom and thought this was my bed." Arthur narrowed his eyes, suspicious. "I did not mean to get in bed with you, I swear..."

Arthur paused. "You better not be lying."

There was an awkward pause.

"You were very warm and comfortable, though," Francis chuckled and Arthur's frown deepened.

"Shut up, frog, and get back in your own bed. We don't have to be ready until nine," Arthur relaxed a bit and slid back onto his bed. Francis nodded and returned to the other bed. Arthur sighed and lay back down.

"By the way..." Francis said, once Arthur had gotten comfortable. "Your night wear is surprisingly adorable on you."

Arthur didn't respond but his cheeks burned to himself.

* * *

"Arthur, it's time to go..." A voice spoke through the English author's light dreaming. "Arthur." A light touch gently made its way down Arthur's shoulder to the tip of his elbow, gently shaking him.

"Mmm... not yet, Dylan..." the Englishman groaned. "Go wake Seamus first..."

"Arthur, it's nine o'clock, we have fifteen minutes to get ready," Arthur was shaken again, a little harder this time. Arthur swatted lazily at the intruder.

"Five more..."

"Do it or I get a kiss," a sing-songy voice said.

"Wha-?" Arthur said groggily, his eyes opening to an approaching Frenchman's puckered lips.

Arthur punched the man in the jaw and Francis fell back with a yelp.

"You punched me!" he said in shock, his hand clutching his jaw. He wasn't angry but he wasn't exactly happy either. "You actually punched me!"

"You tried to take advantage of a sleeping person," Arthur shrugged, awake now. "You were asking for it. You knew the risks."

Francis sighed and rubbed his jaw, occasionally shifting it from side to side. "Well, it's time to get ready, anyway."

"Alright," Arthur swung his legs over his bed after sitting up. Stretching first, he went to his suitcase and pulled out some nice slacks, a button up shirt and an overcoat. The temperature was nice and cool but not chilly yet. Autumn in New York was about the same in London, fortunately, if not a bit colder. Francis was already dressed and groomed, looking quite dashing in dress pants, a white button up and a black jacket. A simple outfit, but it made the wearer look so chic and modern.

Arthur's eyes lingered a little longer than he would've liked to admit. Francis gave him a graceful smile.

"Arthur, you're staring."

Quickly, the author turned away.

"I'm going to get ready," he mumbled, taking his clothes and toiletries into the bathroom.

After almost exactly fifteen minutes, Arthur was ready and a knock came from the door. Francis went to open it and smiled.

"Ah, bon matin, Kiku," Francis greeted him warmly. "How did you sleep?"

"Very well, thank you," Kiku nodded. "Are you both ready?"

"I am. Francis, do you have a room key?" Arthur went to his carry on bag and retrieved a few pens (he never knew when he might need one), tucking them into his breast pocket.

"I do," Francis held up the small card and slipped it into his wallet.

"Let's go, then," Kiku said, politely.

The trio then rode the elevator down to street level and Kiku called a taxi. They engaged in some small talk, the weather for the week, their previous travels, and finally, the convention schedule.

"Will we be going to the same seminars?" Arthur asked Kiku once they had told the cab driver the address.

"Well, we can, though I would like to attend some seminars for editors and publishing. There are some new speakers and returning speakers for the seminars I would like to hear," Kiku informed them. He handed Arthur and Francis each their own convention schedule. "We should coordinate plans so that we may eat together though." The three looked over their schedules, occasionally remarking on eye catching titles or descriptions.

"Oh, _Writing from the Heart _with Antonio Carriedo sounds interesting," Francis noted.

"He's a cocky bastard," Arthur responded and Francis smiled.

"And you aren't?" Francis teased. Arthur rolled his eyes but didn't comment.

They arrived not a quarter hour later and got out, seeing other groups and people go into the convention hall. A sign that shouted "International Author and Publishing Convention" was placed outside with a smaller sign that said "tickets: $30 single day, $40 weekend pass".

Arthur, Kiku and Francis agreed to meet around noon for lunch and that they would get breakfast from a small food stand or from the refreshments room on their own.

"Oh, I forgot to mention, I will be in a panel at two today. Will you come to watch?" Kiku said, just before they were going to split off.

"Of course," Arthur said, automatically.

The two old friends nodded, smiled, and then parted ways, leaving Arthur with Francis.

"So, did you say you wanted to listen to..." Francis glanced at the schedule. "Leonard Whitehouse?"

"Oh, yes," Arthur nodded. "He wrote some very interesting papers on the joy of writer's block and creativity."

"Alright. That sounds interesting," Francis nodded and folded his schedule, tucking it into his coat pocket. "I'll follow where you go... since I'm not an author or an editor."

Arthur paused. "Alright," he waded through the crowd to the conference room, quickly finding a pair of seats in the middle and sat down. People filed in soon after and things settled down when the old bearded author came in.

Francis kept his distance for the most part, but, occasionally, he would make some sort of contact with Arthur; a leg gently tapping against Arthur's, a finger brushing the author's as they walked to another panel.

Finally, it was lunch time and they met back up with Kiku. They ate together briefly before Kiku had to go and prepare for his panel. Arthur and Francis stood outside the panel room and then went to find a seat near the front once the doors were opened.

"Welcome to the _Ask the Editors _panel, everyone. Thank you for coming!" Frank Nickles, the organizer of the panel, said. He smiled and pushed his glasses up his nose. "We welcome distinguished international editors today. Let me introduce to you Heracles Karpusi from Greece, Lawrence Beddingger from America, Kiku Honda from England and Toris Laurinaitis from Lithuania." Everyone clapped politely.

"To start off, I will have Toris talk a little on the editing and publishing process," Nickles spoke and then sat down.

Toris stood and then started speaking, looking nervous at first and then relaxing as he continued. Arthur and Francis listened intently, drinking in every word. He elaborated and informed on the actual behind-the-scenes facts. Once Toris was done, the panel was open for questions. People in the audience asked questions periodically but the panel seemed to drag after the halfway point for Arthur. He glanced over at Francis, watching him a little.

He took in how perfect Francis's jaw line seemed, dotted with the hairs of his beard. Arthur looked at the specific hue of Francis's eyes, at how clear the blue eyes were, and yet how many secrets those eyes seemed to hold.

Arthur wondered what they had seen, if they had seen everything fictional or if they had seen reality the whole time.

"_Mon cher_, you are staring at me again," Francis whispered, snapping Arthur out of his almost trance like observations.

"I was not..." Arthur mumbled and turned back to the front. Francis chuckled but went back to observing the editors. The panel wasn't bad, but the topic did seem a little dry. Francis didn't mind too much though. Every moment with Arthur meant a moment closer to him. Francis had a goal.

"... What do you think about the panel so far?" Arthur whispered not long after the staring.

"... Interesting at first, but it is a rather... riveting topic, as it is." Francis responded. Arthur nodded and sighed. He could see on Kiku's face that _he _was bored too.

Arthur sighed but bore through the rest of the panel. When Frank Nickles thanked everyone for coming, everyone rose quickly, most hurrying towards the exit. Arthur and Francis waited until most of the room had cleared before going to the front where Kiku sat with his fellow editors.

"Well... that was... very nice," Arthur had to resist from just telling Kiku the panel was a bust. At least it had a good beginning.

Kiku sighed. "It's okay. I had hoped it would be more interesting. I know it wasn't actually," he didn't look overly disappointed, fortunately, and Arthur was lifted by Kiku's usual demeanor.

"It's alright, Kiku. We can go do something nice tonight to make up for the panel. Dinner? A movie?" Arthur pictured a nice dinner of exquisitely plated food that was served right out of the cook books he loved. He pictured a nicely lit room where the three of them could maybe talk about their recent reads, or maybe even the news, if there was anything exciting or engaging.

"Well... Actually, I was invited to a sort of... 'after convention' party, this evening," Kiku said, shattering Arthur's fantasies.

"Oh," Arthur said, trying not to sound disappointed.

"I'm sure I could ask him if I could invite you too..." Kiku smiled small, sensing the author's disheartened mood. "I can call..."

"It's alright. We have many more nights here. We can eat together later," Arthur said. He wasn't terribly disappointed. "Besides, I'm not going to be alone..." He nodded towards Francis, who brightened significantly.

"Sorry, again..." Kiku smiled gently. A fellow editor came behind Kiku and set a hand on Kiku's shoulder. The man smiled gently and welcomingly.

"Are you coming, Kiku?" he asked. Kiku glanced at Arthur and then to Francis and nodded at the man.

"See you two later," Kiku waved and then walked off.

Arthur and Francis were alone together, once again.

"Would you mind having dinner with me, then?" Francis said, after a bit of time. "If you don't have other plans already..."

"Where do you have in mind?" Arthur asked.

Francis smiled.

"I asked someone during the convention for restaurant recommendations."

"What did they recommend?" Arthur asked. He felt pretty impressed by the Frenchman's daring nature.

"You'll have to come with me to find out, _cher,_" Francis winked. Arthur grumbled but let himself be lured.

"Well, alright then..." Arthur said. "Should I dress nicely or is it a casual place?"

"It's formal, but a casual formal outfit is also acceptable."

"Well... What the bloody hell does that mean?" the author asked, frowning.

"Dress how you normally dress," Francis said with a mischievous smile. "You dress like a casual gentleman." Arthur sighed in exasperation but was already thinking of outfits. "I am going to go buy some books but I will meet you back in the room and we can have dinner at... shall we say six-thirty?" Francis went to the door and winked at Arthur again and left. The door allowed the sound of the convention goers in and then cut the noise off abruptly once the door clicked shut.

Arthur then realized he was now the room's only occupant now. He sighed and went to the door, not wanting to surprise the next panelists when they came in. However, as he was reaching for the handle, the door was flung open, successfully jamming the British author's fingers into a rather uncomfortable and unnatural position. Arthur fought the howl that came up his throat but he grit his teeth. A groan slipped through, however.

"Whoa! Sorry, I didn't see you there dude. I thought everyone was out of... Arthur?" The attacker paused and Arthur froze. He looked up slowly, dreading what he'd see.

There stood the golden boy in all his glory, just as Arthur had left him nearly five years ago.

Arthur felt his chest tighten and his brows furrow. "Excuse me," Arthur steeled his voice, not meeting those cerulean eyes he knew so well. He pushed past him and nearly sprinted away from the panel room. Arthur heard the same voice calling after him but the Arthur plowed through the crowds, not looking back.

Arthur ran out of the convention center and hastily flagged a taxi, but just as he was getting in, a hand clamped around his wrist.

"Wait! I want to talk to you!" Alfred's eyes searched Arthur's face. "I need-"

"I don't give a damn about what you want!" Arthur yelled, cutting off the American. "You made your decision five years ago! You did what you had to do!" Arthur wrenched his wrist out of Alfred's grasp. He saw the golden boy's face fall, the emotions showing across his face at Arthur's words.

Arthur slammed the cab door close and practically barked at the driver to go. The cab soon sped away, leaving the American on the curb. Once the cab had turned the corner, Arthur relaxed... He apologized to the cabbie and slumped against the seat.

"Was that an ex?" The cabbie asked after a moment of silence.

"Yeah..." Arthur said with a sigh. The cabbie hummed softly and nodded.

"Good luck with 'em," he said. Arthur looked up at the rear-view mirror to see the cabbie glancing at him occasionally.

"Thanks," Arthur felt his pounding heart slow and he had a moment to take in the cab's interior. The inside wasn't much different than the ones in London. The cabbie's info was tucked into a small plastic card holder on the back of the front seats and Arthur squinted at the name.

With a sharp intake of his breath, Arthur finally processed the name.

Jack O'Connell. The name of his serial killer.


	5. Chapter 5

When Francis was done with his preparations for tonight's dinner, he caught a taxi back to the hotel. He went up to the room he shared with his author.

"Arthur? I have returned! Are you almost ready?" he called out. The reservations were made, Francis had his clothes picked out in his mind and was in a good mood despite the convention being a bit of a bore.

However, there was no answer.

"Arthur?" Francis looked to see if he was in the restroom. No one was inside. Arthur wasn't in the room, nor did it look like anyone had been there since the morning.

_Where could he be?_ Francis wondered and did his best to think of where the Englishman could possibly be. Arthur hadn't made any comment about ever visiting New York City before or even America to Francis. _Could he have gotten lost?_

Francis picked up the hotel room phone and dialed Kiku's phone number, which he had given to Francis while they were at the convention. Thankfully, he picked up on the third ring.

"Hello?" Kiku nearly shouted. It was clear he had made it safely to the afterparty. Someone shouted loudly in the background followed by a chorus of hollars. Music blared in the background, and yet Francis had a hard time believing that Kiku would visit such a wild sounding party.

"Bonsoir, Kiku. Excusez-moi, but did Arthur mention other plans for tonight to you?" Francis spoke clearly, hoping Kiku would be able to hear him.

"No. He's not with you?"

"No, we were going to go out for dinner after the convention and split up so I could buy some books and Arthur could listen to a few more panels," Francis reported. _I should've stayed with Arthur. Then things like this would not happen_, he thought guiltily.

"Does Arthur have a cellphone we can call?" Francis frowned.

"No... Our author did not want to have that many lines of communication..." Kiku said with a sigh. "I had to eh... almost literally get on my hands and knees for him to get a home phone and an email address from him. He wanted to rely completely on letters before."

"Well... good thing Arthur's keeping the post office in business but we may want to persuade him into a cellphone soon... if not a smartphone, than just a flip phone." Francis said.

"I know. Listen, I have to go, but let me know when you find him. He could just be lost temporarily or maybe he got distracted by a tea shop. Arthur has a weakness for nice teapots," Kiku raised his voice as the voices in the background got louder again.

"Alright... have fun, Kiku," Francis said and hung up.

The clock read 5:39.

Maybe Arthur was just running late. Bad traffic? A panel that went too long? He couldn't remember which room they were in and was wandering the hotel looking for some indication of the room he belonged in?

Francis flopped on his back on his bed and stared at the ceiling. Where could Arthur be?

However, at exactly six, Arthur walked through the hotel room door. Francis had dozed off gently when the door opened.

"Arthur? Is that you?" Francis called out groggily as he sat up.

"Yeah. I'm here," Arthur said. He came in; pulled off the coat he was wearing. Then tossed it on his bed and looked at Francis, surprisingly calm.

Francis paused a bit. "I thought we would be leaving at six to make it on time... Are you ready to go now?"

Arthur nodded and then looked at his suitcase. "Let me grab a vest and a lighter jacket then..." He did so and then stood near the entryway. "I'm ready now."

Francis nodded and grabbed his wallet, going to the door. Francis wanted to ask where Arthur had been, but something about the look on Arthur's face when he faced the author stopped him.

Fortunately, Arthur seemed to open up as they got closer to the restaurant. The two talked about trivial things and kept the conversation light. When they arrived at the restaurant, Arthur and Francis got out and went in. The British author couldn't help but to marvel at the entryway when they stepped off the chilly pathway leading to the restaurant. Although the exterior walls were off white and plain looking, the vaulted ceilings made the interior feel spacious.

A waiter led the pair through a few rooms that were warmly lit by a few lamps and furnished to look like several comfortable living rooms. Diners sat comfortably in lush seats similar to the small armchairs one would find in a bookstore, and each table was lit with a medium lamp or thin candles in silver candelabras. They were seated in a room that emulated a home library. Various paintings dotted the walls not covered by bookshelves, and small stone statues of various animals acted as the book ends.

Arthur felt... at home.

"Where'd you find this place?" he asked Francis in awe. He had previously stopped momentarily to observe a shelf on the way to their table and had nearly been left behind.

"It's French. Of course I knew where it was," he chuckled. Arthur raised an eyebrow.

"French telepathy or something?"

Francis chuckled and the menu was placed in front of each of them. Arthur took one look at the prices and his mouth fell open. "Francis! What are we doing at a place like this?" He hissed lowly so no one else could hear how poor the author and his character was. "We, or rather _you_, can't even _dream_ to afford this!"

"Nonsense," Francis waved him off, keeping calm. "This is my treat for you... And I also got a little help from Kiku." Francis smiled dazzlingly.

Arthur almost forgot about this afternoon when he saw Francis's smile.

"Have you eaten French food before?" Francis asked.

"I have... Not really my favorite though..." Arthur said. He liked French food well enough but he would always prefer English food over anything. He didn't prefer most French things but somehow... Francis made French things... okay. Or at least tolerable.

"Have you ever been to France and had the real food?"

"Of course. I can't really write about a different culture if I don't know about it..." Arthur said. He hated when authors didn't do their research. Writing about something one didn't know about was one of Arthur's pet peeves.

"Well then, glad to hear. This restaurant was recommended to me from the very nice informant at the convention," Francis said with a smile.

"What if I didn't like French food?" Arthur asked, an almost smug, teasing smile playing at his lips.

"This restaurant has been said to change the minds of many," Francis returned the smug smile.

When the waiter came back, Francis ordered a (very expensive) bottle of wine, a nice 2014 La Fleur de Lys Macon Villages Chardonnay that the waiter said would pair nicely with the restaurant's coq au vin special for the night.

While they were waiting, Arthur paused during their conversation.

"Francis, do you remember... anything about... before you woke up in Paris?" Arthur's words were quiet and hesitant.

"What do you mean?"

"Like... people. Do you remember anyone?" Arthur's green eyes searched Francis's face.

"Are you trying to see if I remember you?" Francis's face was open and curious.

"Well, just in general," Arthur said. "Like your mother, father, siblings, coworkers..." he trailed off.

"I'm sorry to say that I don't," Francis said softly. "I don't remember anyone close to me, but you."

Arthur took another moment to realize how sad that could be. Arthur cherished the memories he had of his grandmother. He loved the warm afternoons when his grandmother would make him tea and biscuits and they'd play cards together. Not so much his brothers, but that was besides the point.

"How about other... characters?" Arthur then asked. "Do you remember... ehm... any friends? Or your wife? Or even... the killer I wrote?"

Francis gave Arthur a small frown.

"What's wrong, Arthur...?" he asked. Something was obviously bothering the author. Arthur swallowed nervously, his menu ignored now.

"The... The man who drove the cab I took to the hotel had the same name as... my serial killer."

Francis was silent after a few moments. "The name isn't that uncommon though? Maybe it was a coincidence?"

"But Francis, what if he _is_ the character from my books? I mean, you're here! What should we do?" Arthur was so clearly agitated but somehow, he kept his voice low and controlled. "What if he starts killing people here?"

"Arthur, calm down. Did the man say anything to you or do anything weird?" Francis said, frowning. He mentally noted how much he didn't like seeing Arthur in distress. And a part of him cursed the way the day was going.

Arthur took a deep, slow inhale and then exhaled slowly. Francis feared the worst for a moment.

"No. He said nothing strange to me. It was as if he didn't know what the name meant to me..." Arthur said. Francis let out a breath he had been holding in.

"Oh, that's good," Francis said out of relief. He feared that Arthur had been threatened or hurt in some way. "It was probably just a mere coincidence. Taxi drivers are of all demographics, remember?" Arthur sighed, also relaxing a little.

"Maybe..." he said. "Anyway, forgive me for adding an unsavory topic to our dinner. I did not intend to bring the mood down.

"C'est bien," Francis smiled slightly easily forgiving the Englishman. "Let's just enjoy the evening."

"Alright," Arthur nodded, smiling small. As the evening progressed, Francis saw Arthur visibly relax. They ordered delicious dishes from the menu, sharing bites of each other's entrees and smiling timidly.

And yet, Francis could still see Arthur shift nervously in his seat once in awhile. His eyes would scan every patron in their room and anyone who came and went out of the room. Francis reached over to gently pat Arthur's hand.

"Thank you for coming to dinner with me," he smiled sincerely.

"Thank you for the invitation," Arthur nodded, not quite sure how to respond to the polite gratitude. He knew Francis probably still loved the author. But what was Arthur to do about feelings that were not his own?

The pair ended their evening by splitting some strawberry chocolate cheesecake and with Francis paying the bill he didn't allow Arthur to see. He couldn't imagine the absurd amount the bill was based on the menu's prices but he wondered with what finances Francis was paying with when last he checked, the French man only had a few hundred pounds.

"Back to the hotel now?" Arthur asked as the two rose from their table.

"If you desire," Francis walked back to the restaurant foyer. He was already calling a taxi to pick them up since the restaurant was slightly outside Manhattan.

"Are you in the mood for anything else tonight?" Francis asked as they waited for the taxi. Arthur considered asking Francis if they could go to a bookstore or a local library since he didn't actually get to stay after the seminar, but he felt tired from today's events.

"I'm alright. Let's just go home for now," Arthur said. Francis nodded and told the cabbie the hotel's address when the yellow car arrived.

Arthur and Francis returned to the hotel in a timely matter. Manhattan had been lit up like the stars, the car headlights illuminating the streets more than the street lamps. People in jackets and jeans started showing up, laughing with their friends as they walked in the concrete jungle at night.

"Have you been to New York before?" Francis asked, even though he knew the answer from observation. He had seen the recognition in Arthur's eyes in certain areas of the city. His eyes were softer when he would look at certain buildings or streets and there was a familiarity with certain areas of the city that Francis had seen when he was with Arthur in England.

"Once before." Arthur said, almost reluctantly. Was that... guilt on the Englishman's face? "I had come here before to work and stayed at a hotel not far from our current hotel."

"By yourself?" Arthur was silent for a second.

"Yes." They both knew Arthur was lying but, thankfully, once again, Francis did not press him.

"Oh," Francis said. They walked back to their room and began to get ready for bed.

"Thank you, again, for the dinner," Arthur said as he shed his coat. Francis poked his head out of the bathroom. He looked the Englishman over once again.

Arthur's cheeks were slightly flushed from the cold air, his hair tousled but his jade eyes were clear and bright. He was unbuttoning his shirt and Francis couldn't help but to let his eyes wander over Arthur's pale neck and chest.

"You're most certainly welcome," Francis practically purred. "My absolute pleasure." He smiled when Arthur's rosy cheeks become rosier but Arthur didn't add anything to the conversation. The two continued their separate nightly routines.

They slipped into their respective beds and relaxed. Arthur typed a few ideas on his computer while Francis started progressing on a book he'd bought from the convention.

"Francis?" Arthur broke the silence after a good twenty minutes.

"Yes?" Francis looked over at the author.

"... Nothing. I'm going to go to sleep now... Sleep well," Arthur nodded, shutting his laptop and turned off his light, turning away from Francis and pulling the blankets over him.

"Bon nuit, mon chou," Francis smiled slightly and continued reading for a little longer before shutting off his own light. Francis couldn't see Arthur rolling his eyes at the term of endearment.

The two closed their eyes at about the same time and fell asleep at the same time. Their breathing nearly matched one another in the quiet room. Their chests rose in time with the clock in the room.

They also emitted the same muffled yelp of surprise as they were hoisted off their beds and carried out of their rooms in the middle of the night. Black bags were roughly tied over their heads as they were snuck out of the hotel. Their hearts beat in time until they were put in separate rooms.

When Kiku came to their room in the morning, he saw the door had not been shut completely and cautiously entered, only to find it empty. Both creator and creation were gone.

* * *

*** The restaurant I based the restaurant Arthur and Francis went to was one that was outside Manhattan. It was small but with high prices (I believe the average meal was $50) and, like in the fic, the atmosphere was very homey with some of the rooms containing shelves of books and comfy seats. I unfortunately, lost the name and the search to find the restaurant photos and name again. Sorry.**

****Also note, that I'm only 18 and don't know shit about wine and food pairings but I tried to keep to the theme of fancy French dining and what could be more fancy French than Julia Child's coq au vin. (Here's the recipe, if anyone was curious). The wine is just something I found that sounded fancy, though it did get a good rating and a very nice description on the vendor site who sold the wine. If anyone tries out to combination, let me know. :) I'll save the combo for later when I can actually drink.**

Hope you guys enjoyed the chapter. :) Please leave a review~ it means a lot~


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N**: Hi... So… it's been a while. Sorry about the delay. I actually had this chapter finished a long time ago but I, 1. forgot to post it, and 2. didn't want to post it until I had finished 7, but forgot that 7 is a MONSTER chapter. Anyway, here is chapter six now so I hope you guys enjoy it! I promise the second chapter will be MUCH better and MUCH longer!

Thanks again, as usual, to my Beta, ScarletPrussia. :) It's because of you that I am comfortable with a lot of the cliche stuff I get away with in this story.

* * *

Arthur's neck was wrenched into an uncomfortable angle when he came to. His eyes were stiff with the sands of sleep and his neck popped when he lifted it. He let out a soft groan when he realized that he was tied to a chair. Fortunately, he wasn't blindfolded but he was left completely in the dark.

He blinked his eyes slowly and tried to control his breathing. Where was he? What had happened? Why was he here?

"Francis?" he called. His voice echoed around the room. "Kiku?"

No answer.

Arthur tried the restraints around his wrists. Whoever had captured him had tied his wrists together behind the chair with either cloth or rope. There was no slack whatsoever in his bindings.

"Anyone?" he shivered, more out of nervousness than the cold of the room.

Arthur was left alone with just his voice and the darkness.

Just then, the door to the room was flung open, a seemingly blinding light suddenly flooding in from the hallway. Arthur turned his head and squeezed his eyes shut, the light too sudden of an adjustment to see who had opened the door.

"Oh, good. You're awake," the person said with an English accent. They walked closer and Arthur tried opening his eyes but they still hadn't adjusted yet. "I was worried that the drugs would knock you out for a full day."

"You must be confused and filled with questions, I presume, hmm?" they said. They walked back over and closed the door enough so there was only a sliver of light cutting through the inky darkness. Arthur dared to open his eyes and found them no longer overwhelmed.

"Those kidnappers weren't too rough, were they?" The person sounded... concerned? Arthur could now roughly see the person. Short messy hair, average height and build, eyes that were beady but filled with sly intelligence.

"Jack..." Arthur whispered. He was just as Arthur imagined him in his books. "You're here too..."

"I'm glad you recognize me," he grinned, losing the facade of worry. "I'd be a shame if my own creator didn't recognize me!"

"What do you want from me? Where's Francis? And Kiku? Did you hurt them?" Arthur demanded, feeling his anger bubble. And what about how Jack knew he was a character and Francis didn't?

Jack took a fist full of Arthur's night shirt, hauling him to his feet with a hard tug. Jack pulled him close, almost nose to nose. Even though the room was dim, Arthur saw the glee in Jack's eyes.

"The public doesn't know about my face yet. I intend to keep it that way," Jack almost purred. " What better way to make my debut than to have my target my creator and my darling French journalist be the first victims?" Arthur swallowed nervously. he knew Jack's methods better than anyone. He knew what he did to his victims even when the book hadn't said explicitly what the serial killer had done.

"Tell me, Jack. Where is Francis and Kiku?" Arthur asked again. He tried to keep his voice from shaking and the fear out of his eyes.

"They're safe, don't you worry," Jack smiled and let Arthur's shirt go, pushing him back down into the chair. Arthur winced slightly as his wrists were crushed between him and the chair and felt the chair tip back slightly, but, thankfully, not enough to cause the chair to fall. "I'll leave you for a bit to think. See you later, Arthur!"

Arthur then watched Jack leave the room, a sly smirk on the killer's face. He chuckled to himself and shut the door, leaving Arthur in the dark again. Were Francis and Kiku really alright? Arthur knew Jack played mind games but he couldn't help but to be worried about his companions despite his own incarceration.

* * *

Alfred was relaxing in his apartment in New York when his phone buzzed, announcing the arrival of a text message.

Casually, he checked the phone and was surprised to find a text message from the one and only Arthur Kirkland.

_What? _Alfred thought as he unlocked his smartphone to see the text.

"Hey," the text message said. Alfred was about to eagerly respond but paused. It had been nearly five years since he last saw Arthur in person, not counting yesterday's afternoon's encounter. Naturally, he was more than surprised (although he probably shouldn't have been since the convention was for authors and publishers) to find Arthur just standing at the door of the panel room that afternoon.

The moment the American saw his former lover, the memories of their last conversation came flooding back. And, of course, so did the guilt.

So of course Arthur's reaction was to be upset and cold, but the American wanted to at least talk about what had happened like adults. The author obviously wanted nothing of it. Arthur had fled before Alfred realized but Alfred had always been faster and pursued Arthur before he could leave, only to be strongly rebuffed.

After he watched the cab speed off, Alfred walked back into the convention, cheeks burning with remorse and shame. His heart was no longer into presenting in the panel anymore.

Alfred had stayed in New York when he'd broken up with Arthur while the latter had moved back to England. They hadn't talked since and the Atlantic seemed to heighten the distance and silence.

Five years passed and Alfred hadn't heard anything from Arthur

Nearly two years after he'd broken up with Arthur, while going to the bookstore to get a book recommended to him by his then girlfriend, he saw a stand for a series of books by an Arthur Harris about a french journalist pursued by a psychotic serial killer.

Although Alfred was by no means a book lover, he read the first book in the series and couldn't help but to enjoy it. He quickly bought the second book in the series, devouring it quickly, in between research projects and meetings. Upon doing a little digging, he found out that Arthur Harris was a pseudonym for a man living in England, but there weren't any in-person interviews or footage of the author. Not even a picture on the back cover or on his simplistic website. He knew next to nothing about the author, and yet, he subconsciously recognized the writing style.

Even though it had been Alfred who had ended his relationship with Arthur, Alfred still had wanted to be friends and didn't want the silence to continue. (Maybe he was selfish, but he didn't want to be plagued with guilt every time he reminisced about Arthur) He was more than happy when Arthur began texting him.

"Hey," he responded back to the text. "I didn't know you texted. Or even had a phone with those capabilities." Arthur had always thought that texting was more time consuming than simple phone calls and refused to update his old flip phone.

"I got one recently," the text replied. "How have you been?"

"Been well, just presented a new discovery I found while in my lab last week," Alfred paused and then added: "That's why I was at the convention yesterday. I was trying to attract attention of publisher to write a book." Maybe they could talk civilly now? Arthur always was horrible with face to face arguments.

"You're still working with that lab?" Arthur's phone sent. When they were dating, Alfred worked in a lab for NASA (that was all he could tell Arthur when they were dating, unfortunately. His projects were to stay top secret) while Arthur had his government job that he always traveled overseas for.

"Yeah. Got a promotion and everything now, " he said proudly. "Are you still working for the British government?"

"No, I write now for a living."

Oh. Now the pieces fell into place in Alfred's mind as to why Arthur was in America.

"... Are you the one who wrote that horror/murder mystery series?" Alfred wanted to confirm.

"You know it?"

"Found it in the book store a while back. Seemed... familiar."

"Did you like it?" The text came faster than normal this time.

"Pretty well written. I can see why it's popular." Alfred couldn't help but to smile a bit as he imagined the Brit eagerly awaiting his texts. The thought made his heart both lift and constrict. Why had he ended the relationship?

"Thank you," Arthur sent.

Then: "Are you free tomorrow?"

Alfred paused then. Were they ready to see each other after this afternoon's encounter? Arthur really hadn't been pleased to see him, honestly. Was Alfred _himself_ ready?

Quickly, Alfred sent a few texts to a couple of his friends, asking for advice. Matthew said to be careful. Gilbert said invite him over. Máximo questioned how Alfred got his number.

Alfred stared at his phone now even more unsure of what to do.

"Coffee?" Alfred suggested.

"Sounds good. Though, I get tea, as usual." Alfred smiled again. Always a tea drinker. Alfred had tried to get Arthur to like coffee, but the Englishman was a stubborn purist.

"I'll send you the address for a place I like. See you tomorrow, Arthur." Alfred sent, already starting a search on Google Maps for places he could take Arthur.

"See you then."

Everything seemed to be like a dream then. Arthur suddenly being in America, Arthur texting him, and now, he had a date with him! (Though neither said it was, but it seemed like one!) After five years of silence, Alfred wondered how Arthur had changed.

I hope this goes well, Alfred hoped, as he continued to search for a coffee shop. Please let this go well!

* * *

"Still not a fan of fireworks, hm?" Jack leered at Arthur as he sat in the corner of his room.

He had been untied from the chair now and had his legs and wrists bound with thick, coarse rope. He pushed himself against the cold walls of the room, trying to put as much distance between Jack and himself. Sweat covered his entire body, making his hair stick to his forehead and the dirt of the room stick to his arms.

In the middle of the room hung large firecrackers that popped loudly as they burned. Even though they lit the room and allowed Arthur to search for a possible escape route, the loud cracks of the fireworks made Arthur cringe. Each colorful explosion was like holding a gun next to his ears and made him shudder.

"Come now, Arthur, look at the beautiful colours..." Jack goaded. When the fireworks had burned themselves out and the room fell silent, Jack walked over to Arthur.

The author's breathing was labored and short, his muscles taut and his senses both dulled and heightened.

"There, there, Arthur," Jack nearly cooed. He pulled out a flare and lit it, the ominous red light highlighting and casting shadows over Jacks' face. Though the flare made no loud pops of sound, Arthur's eyes darted between the flare and Jack's face. "Why don't you relax a little? It's not good to be so tense all the time."

Jack crouched next to Arthur, holding the flare closer to Arthur. Arthur had half a mind to kick Jack while he was so close, but the fear that flooded his mind was debilitating and all he did was to press himself harder against the corner, curling in upon himself.

"P-Piss off, wanker," Arthur ground out. He tried to make his gaze angrier and more accusatory but he knew that Jack would still be able to see and sense the fear.

"Don't be that way," Jack said, his tone still light. The flare was dangerously close now. Arthur could feel the heat from the flare on his cheek. He began to tremble again.

Then the flare went out and Arthur's muscles relaxed a little.

"Mmm, maybe not today then," Jack said. he tossed the used flare aside and stood up properly. He looked at Arthur with something close to pity in his eyes. "You're a wonderful author but a cowardly man."

Arthur gave no response, taking silent, slow, deep breaths to try and calm himself down.

"We'll meet again, chap," jack said. He walked to the door and opened it, glancing back at Arthur. "Cheerio, as they say!"

Then the door was closed and locked and Arthur was left in the darkness again.

When a significant time had passed, Arthur uncurled himself from the ball he had nearly become. He ran his fingers slowly across the floor and around the room, inch by inch, crawling around slowly. He was aware of his thumping heart and his slow, deep breaths.

After feeling around the room, he found the doorknob but of course it was locked. "Anyone?" he whispered, not expecting an answer.

"Arthur?"

He froze. Who had spoken?

"Arthur? Are you here?" the voice said again. Arthur listened closely. Maybe he was imagining things? Had he finally gone crazy?

Arthur lifted a shaking fist and timidly knocked on the door. Just one knock.

He heard shuffling on the other side.

"Hello? Who's there?"

Arthur knocked again, a little louder this time. His body was too tired to allow him to knock louder. More shuffling.

The person knocked back and Arthur jumped in surprise. "Is someone in there?"

"I-I'm here..." Arthur's voice is weak and shaky. "Help me," he whispered. Arthur rapped on the door twice more.

The door handle jiggled and Arthur couldn't help but to be hopeful. Arthur heard the person make a displeased sound and then heard the footsteps walking away from the door.

"A key?" Arthur suggested. He pressed his ear to the door.

"Looking." Arthur focused on trying to identify the voice. Definitely not Jack but... could this person be working for Jack? Arthur knew the serial killer wasn't above manipulating others in his "games".

After a moment, the voice returned. "I didn't find a key. Any ideas?"

Arthur swallowed, suddenly nervous. What if Jack came back now? Where did he go? "B-Break down the door?"

"... Alright. Stand back!"

Arthur barely had any time to scramble back away from the door when a giant mass hit the door. The two people heard the door frame crack but the lock held. There was a moment before the person pounded against the door, more cracking sounds filled the air. Arthur was, once again, pressed against the back wall, wide eyed and nervous.

Then, Arthur heard a yell from the other side and the person ran into the door, shoulder down, and the door flew off the hinges with a loud bang and a sharp crack of the frame. Arthur let out a yelp as the door landed on the floor with a clamorous bang.

"Arthur?" said a familiar voice. Arthur peeked from behind his hands that hid his face. _No way_. "Are... are you okay?"

Alfred was beyond surprised when he saw Arthur in the dark room. He thought it was weird to begin with that Arthur was running late (he always insisted on being at least fifteen minutes early to everything) but it was even weirder when the texts asked Alfred to come up to the room to help him choose something to wear.

When Alfred had arrived at the hotel, he was instructed to go up to the twenty-third floor. The curious thing was that no one else seemed to be going as high as Alfred in the elevator. There were no sounds from the other rooms as he walked by them. No TVs or talking voices.

When he came to the room, the door had it's swinging lock pushed in between the frame and the door so that the door was only open a small crack. He entered the room cautiously and was even more surprised when he saw extra furniture that had been pushed to one wall.

All the alarm bells were going off in his head when he heard a knock from... the walls?

At first, Alfred thought he was in a horror movie and there was someone trapped between the walls, but he kept calling out Arthur's name and tracked the knocks to a locked door. The extra furniture probably came from... the adjoining room?

Needless to say, when he busted down the door, seeing Arthur again, but in such a contrast of two days ago, Alfred was nearly as shocked as Arthur was.

"What are you doing here?" Arthur asked, his eyes still panicked. The light in the room was limited, but Alfred was able to see Arthur as if the room was fully lit. He saw the burnt out firecrackers and flares, the bruises on Arthur's fair skin and the fear in his eyes.

"Getting you out of here," Alfred said, his eyes hardening a little. Five years had done nothing to diminish the feelings Alfred had realized. Alfred moved towards Arthur, holding out his hand. "Let's get you out of here."

"My legs and wrists..." Arthur held his bound wrists up for Alfred to see. He paused and then frowned a little.

Suddenly, Alfred lifted Arthur, throwing Arthur ungracefully over his shoulder. Arthur and his ribs groaned in protest. Alfred then proceeded to carry him out of the room. Arthur then saw that he had been imprisoned in his own hotel, just a few more floors higher.

Alfred carried Arthur out of the hotel and called a taxi. Arthur couldn't help but to feel self conscious of himself as he stood on the New York street in his dirty pajamas and his bruised skin.

When they got a taxi, Arthur was gently placed in the back. He felt as if everything he'd been through had been a dream and that eventually he would wake up in his home in England with Elizabeth besides him.

A sudden wave of fatigue hit Arthur and he lost the ability to keep his eyes open. He shut his eyes for what seemed to be only a second when he woke back up as Alfred was gently pulling him out of the taxi and carrying him up to his apartment.

"Arthur? Are you thirsty?" Would you like me to make you some tea now?" Alfred asked softly. he set the Brit on his own bed, making sure to lay a blanket over Arthur. Everything the American did with Arthur was gentle, as if Arthur were made of glass.

Arthur hummed half to himself and half to Alfred, still exhausted.

"Thank you, Alfred..." he almost sighed. Alfred paused and had to tell himself that Arthur was probably just tired and delirious. He'd have hell to pay later when Arthur was rested and thinking clearly. He decided that he'd just get Arthur water and start some tea and food.

He tucked the blanket around Arthur and sighed, looking at Arthur's face. Time was starting to show a little on Arthur's face. He was no longer the twenty-something he had met in college but Alfred thought age didn't affect the way he still loved him. Even though Arthur was only three years older than the American, that hadn't stopped them from maintaining their relationship when Arthur graduated.

Gently, Alfred ran a thumb over Arthur's cheek. It was soft and warm.

"I still love you," Alfred whispered, one hand touching Arthur and the other shoved deep into the pocket of his old bomber jacket. "And I'm sorry..."

Arthur shifted, making Alfred's heart leap to his throat and he nearly leapt back in nervousness, but all Arthur did was shift to his side to get more comfortable.

Once Arthur stilled, Alfred relaxed and sighed again. He then set out to prepare the tea and some food when a questioned arose in his mind.

Why had Arthur returned to New York when he told Alfred he'd never set foot on American soil again?


	7. Chapter 7

**ONE NOTE: sorry i over reacted earlier when I said I wouldn't continue uploading to ff . It was 2 am when I was trying to post and I got frustrated that copy and pasting the story wasn't working. So now, i just have to upload a doc file instead of copy n pasting. My apologies u_u**

Here we go with chapter seven at 6538 words.

**TERRIBLY SORRY for the late update. I've been packing for college so there's been no progress on chapter eight and I usually like to have a chapter queued for the next posting.**

**So here I am, posting chapter seven, three months after chapter six, and nowhere close to finishing chapter eight yet.**

**As always, credit given to my lovely Irish beta ScarletPrussia on :D**

**Also! Shout out to a fan that I met in a AmeCan server on slack (you know who you are ;) )! Brownie points for making that night one of my happiest :) I love meeting fans! Track me down! :D**

* * *

Arthur slipped out of his dreamless sleep slowly. His shoulders were sore and his entire back felt stiff and tight. He groaned softly and opened his eyes slowly, but despite his muscles protest of moving, he struggled to sit up and found that his body was enveloped in warm cloth.

"How are you feeling, Arthur?" someone said from Arthur's right. Arthur turned his head and saw Alfred Jones sitting in the chair near a desk. "You slept for a long time..."

"What _is_ the time?" Arthur asked, regarding Alfred cautiously. He felt the small burn marks on his legs tighten. They had scabbed over now and Arthur couldn't help but to run curious fingers over his body's healing efforts. He pushed the blanket back a little and frowned at the ugly deep-red clots and the redness around them, then shifted the blanket to hide them from view again.

"You mean the date. It's November sixteenth, around seven pm." Alfred said. "Thankfully, you slept through the night and an extra day without problems."

Arthur paused. The date was two days from the first day of the convention. He realized he had almost missed the entire reason why he was in America again. Then he realized who he was talking to and the memories of his rescue came rushing back.

"Hi..." Arthur said hesitantly. He no longer wanted to be conscious now. Or at the very least, in Alfred's apartment with Alfred.

"Hi," Alfred stood from where he sat, blue eyes trained on the English man. "Are you hungry?" He was acting as if everything was normal, and Arthur frowned.

"Uh... wait..." Arthur said as Alfred moved his attention and body towards the door momentarily. Alfred waited, his analyzing azure eyes once again on Arthur. He suddenly felt nervous with the American's attention on him. "How... How did you find me?"

"I don't know, but we'll talk more after we eat, okay?" Alfred said, almost shaking his head. Arthur nodded and felt his stomach demand nutrients.

Alfred left Arthur alone in the room and the author couldn't help but to be a little nosey about his surroundings.

Alfred's bedroom was cozy and masculine. Modern and chic light fixtures lit the room with a soft, friendly glow. A nice sized rectangular mirror hung over a chest of oak drawers and floor to ceiling windows covered one wall. Curtains hung to the side and beyond, the city of New York alive and well on the streets below. The sky had just turned a deep navy blue with tinges of pink and purple. Alfred's room was pretty high and the view was spectacular.

The bed was soft and comfortable even if Arthur was still in the dirt smeared pajamas that he had been taken in. A tinge of unreasonable guilt tainted Arthur's mind. Here he was, a lowly author from England in sweat, blood and dirt-stained nightwear, tainting the bedroom of his ex who was obviously doing quite well for himself. The only thing that could be the cherry on top would be if Alfred had pictures of a gorgeous lover all over his apartment.

Just to make sure, Arthur looked around the room and even dared to slide open one of the bedside tables drawers. No pictures of a gloriously stunning person. Arthur didn't know if he should be relieved or confused. Why did he care? They hadn't seen each other for more than five years.

"Arthur? Are you coming?" Alfred called from the other room. Arthur had gotten lost in his thoughts.

"Coming!" Arthur called back. Very slowly, he swung his legs over the side of the bed and set his feet on the floor. Carefully, he stood, relieved to find only a bit of soreness in his knees. A few areas of his skin felt tight, as if a bandage were keeping the skin from shifting as he walked, but, all in all, Arthur didn't expect a long recovery. Then he tried walking, his legs only a little wobbly, and he made it to the other room where Alfred was.

Arthur found Alfred was standing in his kitchen with his back to the bedroom door. He was wearing a loose t-shirt and dip-dyed jeans.

Something smelled divine.

"I hope you don't mind that I made you waffles and bacon," Alfred turned when he heard Arthur. He pulled a just warmed cup of what Arthur knew to be real maple syrup from the microwave (Arthur remembered that Alfred's brother, Matthew, forbade Alfred from ever purchasing the fake maple syrup. Matt said if he ever got word that Alfred bought that "low grade fake shit", he'd have Alfred deported to a real maple syrup farm for the rest of his life to experience the real stuff).

"Not at all," Arthur nodded, taking a seat and sneaking looks at the rest of Alfred's apartment. The kid had taste, that was for sure. The kitchen took up half of the second room, the other half occupied by a leather grey corner couch facing a big flatscreen. Arthur saw a pillow and a bed sheet thrown over the couch and mentally apologize for making Alfred sleep on the couch while he got the bed.

Plates of fluffy waffles and fatty bacon were set on the bar top island behind the stove and Alfred pulled out a chair next to Arthur and almost immediately began to consume the food.

"So, why breakfast foods if it's almost night?" Arthur asked, eating his food, but with less gusto.

"Thought you might enjoy it. Plus, the smell of bacon is _sooooooo_ good," Alfred grinned between bites. His smile was a welcome sight. Arthur didn't want to get to the heavy stuff yet.

For now, Arthur enjoyed the sweetness of the syrup and the rich (if not greasy) taste of the bacon. Somehow, having 'dinner' like this felt... natural. Like they hadn't broken up five years ago.

"So... How'd you find me?" Arthur asked again. Most of his food was gone now and Alfred was making seconds.

Alfred made a weird face. "You texted me."

Arthur stopped eating and frowned at Alfred. Why would he make up something like that? "Seriously."

"I am being serious, Art. You texted me. Or someone did with your phone," Alfred pulled out his phone to show Arthur. The author could and could not believe it at the same time. "Who would text me using your phone number? Especially to direct me to you in... that condition." Alfred wondered. How was Arthur going to explain this? Fake innocence? Tell him the truth?

But one thing was for sure, Arthur now knew that Alfred finding him was no accident. Jack had deliberately led the American to him. What was he planning?

"Well..." Arthur said, not meeting Alfred's eyes. "I know the answer... but you have to hear me out until the end." This time, Alfred was the one who frowned.

"This better not be some sick prank," Alfred said, suddenly suspicious. Arthur rolled his eyes. Both of them knew that Arthur really wasn't one who enjoyed pranks but Arthur supposed that Alfred was just covering all his bases.

"Okay..." Arthur said, taking a deep breath. Please, please believe him. "You remember that I said I wanted to be an author, right?" Alfred noded. "Well... I write under the pen name, Arthur Harris-"

"I know. I've read them. Whoever was using your phone told me you were an author." Alfred said as a matter of factly. Arthur paused, frowned a little and then continued.

"Well... the characters from the books... They're real. And... They're here in New York City right now."

There was a very long pause.

Alfred blinked a few times and Arthur could practically see the cogs working in Alfred's mind.

"So... the one who kidnapped you was...?"

"Jack O'Connell."

"The mastermind killer."

"Yes." Arthur said. "And somehow, I need to put them back into the book, or do something to get things back to normal."

"But why are they here in the first place?" Alfred ased. "If the series is done, then shouldn't the character arcs be finished?"

"One would think..." Arthur said. "But they're here anyway..."

"So... if your killer's here... where's your protagonist? Um... Francis is his name?" Alfred asked. Arthur felt a pang of guilt. Here he was having an absolutely lovely breakfast/dinner with his ex (of all people) while Francis could still be, or is, in Jack's possession.

"I don't know... I don't know anything of... 'normal' life since last night... or two days ago..." Arthur said, a seed of anxiety already blossoming in his mind.

"Well... would you be up to returning to that hotel?" Alfred asked, watching Arthur carefully.

Arthur glanced up from his folded hands to look at Alfred. "Yeah... I'll be fine."

"Alright. Did you want to borrow something of mine to wear and get cleaned up before we go?" Alfred asked as he stood. He took both of their plates and rinsed them before putting them in the chrome dishwasher.

"Sure, um... Thank you... Alfred," Arthur said gratefully. Alfred's name felt foreign on his tongue. It had been so long since the two had a normal (or at least civil) conversation.

Arthur got up from the bartop and navigated himself to Alfred's bathroom. When Arthur saw himself in the mirror, he frowned at what he saw.

His hair was pointing in every different direction, his skin was dirty and clammy, the pajamas he wore were torn and burnt and most of all, the dark circles and bags under Arthur's eyes were so intense, Arthur felt like he was turning into an old racoon. No wonder Alfred seemed hesitant with Arthur. He looked like he'd been living in the rubbish bin for the last five years since their separation, Arthur thought bitterly.

Arthur turned on the shower and stepped in, washing his hair and lathering his body quickly. He scrubbed his skin until all the dirt had been washed down the drain and Arthur's skin had turned pink with friction and heat.

When he got out, he saw that Alfred had placed clean clothes and a towel out for Arthur. With a blush, and a realization that Alfred had entered the bathroom while Arthur was showering. Arthur quickly dried himself off and then dressed. Arthur wasn't sure if it was the heat of the shower water or if it was the fact that he'd dated Alfred, but having Alfred's clothes on, just being in Alfred's apartment, made him feel... excited.

But then his mind turned to Francis and it all felt wrong.

"Alfred? I'm ready." Arthur said, coming out of the bathroom. He stood in a pair of Alfred's jeans (much too baggy for Arthur's leaner figure) and a t-shirt of Alfred's that declared "Nerdy And Proud". Alfred looked up from his desk and stifled some laughter.

"I forgot how much smaller you were than me..." he chuckled. "You look like you're still in college..." Arthur scowled at him.

"Belt up, wanker. I just didn't want to look like I had... you know... just been... ah, nevermind," Arthur trailed off, not really wanting to think about where he was two nights ago.

Alfred nodded, his laughter dying down. "Yeah... Just noticing that you haven't changed much since I last saw you... Let's go then," he stood and went to the apartment's door, making sure Arthur was following.

They walked down to the elevators and finally made it to the street. Arthur felt himself feeling a little overwhelmed by the loud honks and chatter of people talking even though the light was disappearing from the sky. Arthur thought to himself that even if he wanted to, he wouldn't be able to tolerate city life for very long. He felt the world starting to swirl around him a bit and a churning of his stomach made him wobble a little.

Then, Arthur felt a set of hands on his shoulders. "You alright?" Alfred asked from behind Arthur. Somehow, he'd noticed despite all the distractions from the New York streets.

"Yeah... I'll be fine..." Arthur said softly. Alfred hailed a taxi and the two waited until one finally pulled over for them. All the while, Alfred kept one hand on Arthur's shoulder. Somehow, it settled his stomach and Arthur didn't know if that was a good thing or a bad thing. Finally, they got a taxi.

They sat in silence for the entirety of the ride to the hotel, but to Arthur, it was... a relatively comfortable silence. Arthur was okay with silence with company.

They arrived at the hotel and Alfred paid the cabbie. They stood on the sidewalk together, looking up at the building, both deep in thought.

_I should've called Kiku when I woke up... _Arthur thought guiltily. _I hope he's not too worried_.

They walked into the hotel and rode the elevator up to Arthur's floor. _It's unusual that Alfred's so silent_, Arthur thought. _He's definitely changed..._

They walked to Kiku's room first. Arthur knocked on the door. There was a pause before the door opened and Kiku opened the door, saw Arthur, and immediately hugged him.

"Where were you? You and Francis disappeared without telling me! Were you mad that I went to the party after the convention?" Kiku asked, looking Arthur up and down once he released him. "Forgive me for my forwardness, but you really worried me... Are you alright?"

"Ah... I'm fine..." Arthur said, pleased and also guilty that Kiku was so worried. "Francis isn't with you?"

Kiku motioned for him to come inside the room, looked Alfred once over before inviting him in too. "I was about to ask you the same thing... Please, tell me what happened..."

The three sat down and Arthur quickly caught Kiku up, leaving out some of the... details of his time with the killer. Needless to say, Kiku was more than surprised that Arthur and Francis were missing because of another real life fictional character and not because Kiku had a moment of selfishness.

"So... Jack kidnapped Francis at the same time, but he hasn't been found yet..." Kiku said after the long explanation. "Now... who is he?" He looked at Alfred now who was calmly looking around the hotel room.

"I'm Alfred. Ex." Alfred looks at Kiku and half smiled. Arthur nearly scowled at Alfred for the simplicity and shortness of his answer. "For some reason, this Jack character led me to Arthur."

"He must have a reason for doing so..." Kiku's petite eyebrows furrowed. "Jack is a character who likes to 'play with his food before eating it'..."

"I can't imagine what he wants with me or Alfred," Arthur said.

"Well... why does this guy usually kill?" Alfred asked. "Why did you make Jack a killer?"

Kiku and Alfred's eyes were on Arthur now and he suddenly felt nervous.

"Why does that matter? He kills because he wants to compensate for something..." Arthur said nervously. "Usually, serial killers go through some sort of traumatic event, or they're lacking some sort of emotion. That's the thing they have to compensate for."

"What happened to him then?" Alfred prompted.

"I, um..." Arthur struggled, his mind racing to come up with an answer.

Arthur didn't want to admit it, but he had created Jack to recover from the termination of his relationship with Alfred. He wanted to create someone who was impervious to emotional pain. That person had to be directly opposite to Francis, the flamboyant, kind, _emotional_ journalist who had casual relationships like having a bag of crisps. He was what Arthur wanted at the time. Arthur did not want to feel emotional pain again.

"His family never loved him. They loved others, but not him. He grew up without ever having experienced love." Arthur finally explained. He drew from an article he read while researching serial killers. "Jack wanted to 'love' in the only way he knew how."

"That's fucked up, Art," Alfred made a face, breaking the morose feeling that had started to descend over the trio. Kiku and Arthur glanced at each other, and then at Alfred. "It's horrible to think that there are actual people who have the will and desire to do shit like that..."

"Well, I still don't understand how learning about Jack's past would reveal why he would bring you into the mix, Alfred," Arthur sighed. He was curious himself though, of course. "Our main focus right now should be finding Francis."

"Right. We should check the rest of the hotel then. Alfred, if you will permit me to have your phone number, I can go down to the lobby and ask if they've seen Jack or if he left any clues about Francis's whereabouts," Kiku held out his hand and Alfred easily and willingly plunked his phone into the Japanese man's hand. Kiku fiddled with the screen a bit before handing the phone back to Alfred. "There. You two should probably stick together since Arthur doesn't have a cell phone."

Arthur looked a little sheepish (if not slightly annoyed that everyone insisted he have a portable landline) but he nodded in agreement anyway.

The trio stood and parted ways, Kiku descending and Alfred and Arthur ascending. After Alfred hit the floor number, the two fell into an uncomfortable silence. After a few minutes, Alfred spoke.

"So, what is Francis to you, Arthur?"

_God, what timing, you wanker_, Arthur thought.

"Why does it matter to you?" Arthur asked. He refused to look at what kind of face the American was making. He would not even dare a peak.

"Because I don't want to be saving a total douche." Alfred shrugged. Really, he wanted to know if, by some miracle, Arthur now prefered French men, and if Alfred would have to brush up on his French.

Arthur rolled his eyes. Forget what he thought earlier about the possibility of Alfred maturing. He was still such a child. "Don't be ridiculous. You've read my books. He's not a douche. He's a respectable man." Arthur then realized that he was defending the character he had hated and killed off. What a strange turn of events. But now, Alfred's question rattled around in Arthur's mind. What _was _Francis to him?

The elevator dinged quietly as they rose to the upper levels.

"So what room did you find me in?" Arthur asked, even though he felt himself tensing up at the thought of going back in that sinister hotel room.

"Uh... room thirty-five?" Alfred said. He gestured down the right hall and Arthur led the way, silently counting the room numbers as the pair passed each numbered plate.

Arthur's heart beat rapidly as he neared the door. He walked closer and closer to the room until he could just reach out and set his hand on the door's handle.

He tried the door. Locked.

Confusion ran through Arthur's eyes. "Alfred... the door's locked."

"What? How is that...?" Alfred frowned. Arthur moved out of the way and Alfred tried the handle too. "What the hell?"

"I don't know... Are you sure this is the right room?" Arthur asked. He looked down both ends of the hall as if something would pop out at him to make the door unlock.

Suddenly, Alfred began kicking the door close to the lock, each kick planted with significant force, each accompanied by a loud bang. Arthur yelped and jumped back, until the lock on the door cracked and the door slammed open.

"Bloody hell, a little warning before you turn into a battering ram?" Arthur mumbled. He walked inside the room only to find it... normal.

The furniture was placed similarly to Kiku's room, no longer pushed to one wall. The door that Arthur had been kept behind had been repaired, the hinges screwed back into the wall, the cracks somehow repaired and painted. His prison/room had been cleaned, the lights and furniture replaced.

"What the..." Alfred said from behind Arthur. He sounded just as confused as Arthur felt. "Everything's normal..."

"I know... How are we going to find Francis if the room's been cleaned?" Arthur wondered aloud. There had to be a reason as to why it was cleaned and why this room in particular.

Then... something seemed to click in Arthur's brain.

"Alfred, why do you think I was kept in this room? Why not the top floor as far away as possible from other people? There are still people in this hotel. " Arthur asked. He left the room quickly, frowning as he feared his suspicions might be correct.

"Wait, Arthur!" Alfred followed the rushing Brit to the elevators. "Where are you going?"

"Alfred, one of the most noticeable things about Jack is that he's a sucker for numbers with meanings." Arthur nearly punched the elevator button, turning on Alfred. "What floor are we on right now?"

"Uh, the twenty third. Why?" Alfred asked, hesitant and still confused. "What's so suspicious about that? It's pretty high."

"Don't you remember? It's my birthdate. The twenty-third of April! St. George's Day!" Arthur said. "If I'm correct, Francis will be on..."

"Dude, I literally don't celebrate other countries' holidays." Alfred deadpanned. "I'm American. The most foreign thing we celebrate is St. Patrick's Day."

Arthur rolled his eyes. "The fourteenth of July. France's independence day! Bastille Day!"

"Why'd you make that his birthday?" Alfred made a face. "To make him special?"

The elevator door opened and Arthur ran in, pressed the button for floor fourteen. "No stupid, I just... didn't have any other date in mind. That's like asking why you were born on July fourth."

"Francis wasn't born though, Arthur. _I was_." Alfred made an 'I'm so not happy with you right now' face but Arthur ignored the look.

The elevator seemed to descend slowly but pretty soon they were being let off at the fourteenth flour. The hallway was silent when they stepped off.

"Arthur!" Alfred whispered. "What if Jack's still in the room?"

"Then you'll knock him out." Arthur said. The walk down the hall seemed like it was taking forever. His heart thumped wildly in his chest and everything in his body was simultaneously telling him to rip the door off the frame and also run away and return to England on the first plane out.

They finally reached the thirty-eighth door.

"Wait, why are we here?" Alfred asked, confused again.

"Because Francis is thirty-eight years old."

"Francis is _thirty-eight_?" Alfred asked in disbelief. "He looks so young! Twenties!"

Arthur resisted another eye roll. "He's older than me in this world, apparently. In my series, he's twenty-five."

"How'd you know he's older in the 'real' world then?" Alfred asked. He was a little worried now that Francis was around Arthur's age.

"He came with an ID card," Arthur said. "Quite conveniently actually. Apparently he's had amnesia for a while."

"Hm," was all Alfred could say. The two stood in front of room thirty-eight. "Ready?"

"Ready."

"Francis, Francis, my lovely Francis," the voice sung. Though the room was dark, the man's leer was bright as day for the Frenchman.

Francis struggled against his bonds, letting out a pitiful whimper.

"You were the toughest to crack, but I did it once~" The man sang with glee. "It's a shame you don't remember anything..."

"And I'm glad I don't!" Francis yelled, however his words were met with a loud and very hard smack across his right cheek.

"You will have to be broken again," Jack hissed. He clamped his hands on Francis's shoulders, then slid them down to the front of Francis's shirt. Jack hauled him to his feet, pulling him almost nose to nose with the other man. "As I said before, _the next will be yours_!"

Francis's eyes widened as he actually recognized the words, not from the book but from his actual life and memories.

Flashes of a woman holding his hand suddenly clouded his vision, images of bloody corpses, and flashing police lights. He remembered snuggling with someone in a small flat, spritzing on cologne that smelled of flowers and wood, of listening to police radio frequencies and writing down the words.

But he also remembered Arthur's cat, Elizabeth, as she rubbed her face on his ankles. He remembered Arthur's small house that smelled of freshly brewed tea and honey. He remembered Arthur's beautiful green eyes that were lit by the restaurant's candle light and the way they looked at the books he held and the way they looked at Francis.

The Frenchman was then shoved back against the cold tile floor and his heart clenched painfully.

"You'll remember!" Jack crowed. "You'll remember and you'll repeat yourself again!"

Francis squeezed his eyes shut and curled up into a ball, trying to ignore Jack's maniacal laughter. He heard Jack open the door again and then the sound of it closing. He heard a lock and then it was blissfully silent.

Slowly, Francis's heart beats became less intense. Francis did not dare open his eyes because he knew he would see red. He knew that anything he touched would turn red. He nearly laughed to himself out of the irony of his situation. He'd escaped his story and yet, here he was, repeating the plot again.

He didn't know how much time had passed now but the next thing Francis knew was that the door had been flung open and a pair of voices filled the room.

"He's not here, Art!" one said.

"That's good! I found him, Alfred! Francis? Francis, it's me, Arthur," A gentle hand was placed on Francis's shoulder. The touch was light and unthreatening.

Francis peaked his head out of his curled form to see those beautiful peridot eyes. Somehow, they had found their way to him. Somehow, they were saving him.

Francis cried then. Big, hot tears rolled over Francis's bruised cheeks and he found himself uncurling himself only to curl back into Arthur's chest.

Arthur gently embraced the Frenchman back, glad to have found him. "Shhh... it's alright... it's alright... You'll be safe now..." He rubbed a comforting hand on Francis's back in big, slow circles.

"We're going to get you out of here, alright?" Arthur said. "Can you walk?"

It took Francis nearly five minutes to finally compose himself.

"Yes, but I am bound..." he said. For once, he struggled with his words and with keeping his voice from shaking.

"Right... hmm... this time, he used rope..." Arthur said as he looked around the room for something sharp to cut Francis's bonds. He was both disappointed and somewhat relieved that he didn't' find anything. "Alfred? Can you find something to cut rope out there?" Arthur called.

Francis, though his mental state was in question at the time, was less than pleased when the American who seemed to radiate promise, hope and success walked through the door to free him. Francis was torn between wanting to be free and wanting Arthur to explain who this new man was and what he may mean to the Englishman.

Arthur cut the ropes with a pocketknife he pulled from his jacket's pocket and stepped back, each man sizing each other up. Arthur suddenly felt very aware and very uncomfortable with the tension in the air. He chose to ignore it.

"Come on, Francis. We should get you out of here..." Arthur stood up and offered a hand to Francis, who gratefully took it. While Arthur led Francis out of the room, the Frenchman had no shame in exaggerating his shaky legs and leaned on Arthur a bit more than he was probably allowed.

"Where are we even going?" Alfred asked, choosing to ignore his new rival's terribly obvious actions. "Your hotel room or my apartment?" Alfred really didn't want to invite his enemy into his private home but he also wanted to show off the established life that Francis did not have as a fictional character.

"We need to reconvene with Kiku. Can you call him and tell him to meet us at our hotel room?" Arthur asked Alfred. The American nodded and called Kiku.

"He'll meet us there," he reported shortly.

"Thanks. Francis, are you alright?" Arthur asked, concerned again with Francis's well being. Francis felt that he could get used to the care.

"Yeah, just... processing," Francis nodded, smiling small.

"You can take a nap if you want while Alfred, Kiku and I talk about what happened, okay?" Arthur said, watching for Francis's reaction. Having been through a similar ordeal, he predicted Francis would sleep almost as soon as he was laid down on a bed.

"Ah... I want to listen..." Francis said as the three rode the elevator down to Arthur and Kiku's adjacent rooms.

"Are you sure? Well, we should get your ah... injuries tended to before we start though..." Arthur said, trying to keep the conversation going as Alfred had suddenly gone quiet since they entered Francis's make-shift prison. The elevator ride down and the walk to the hotel room was uncomfortably quiet.

Kiku came out of the room, saw Francis then ushered the trio inside.

"Will you be okay?" he asked Francis urgently. He gently pushed Francis to the shared bedroom and went to the bathroom to see if he could find any medical supplies or something to treat the small cuts and scrapes.

"I will be fine. Thank you, Kiku," Francis said. He could already feel himself getting more tired as he started relaxing into the bed, but he fought the need to sleep. _Not yet_, _I have to keep an eye on Arthur_.

"I am assuming you did not confront Jack then?" Kiku asked, coming out of the bathroom with some bandages and hydrogen peroxide he had fortunately packed in the small medkit he usually packed.

"No, he was gone when we arrived." Arthur said, his disappointment evident. "Though, we really had no plan for if we did come face to face with him..."

"Do you think we should... end Jack's life?" Kiku asked for a moment. "Do you think we should let the police handle this?"

Arthur thought, no knowing the answer himself. What would happen if Jack was killed? Would Arthur's story be affected? Would Francis?

"Would they believe us?" Arthur asked in response. Everyone was silent for a moment as they thought to themselves, imagining hypothetical situation and outcomes.

"How do we get rid of this guy?" Alfred asked. "How should we?"

"Okay, let's think this out then... We know hardly anything about this situation. We know we have a killer at large who likes to play with his victims and knows he's a character. Why does he know who he is and not Francis?" Kiku said, pulling out a pad to take notes.

"Might as well add that question to the ever-increasing list of questions," Alfred said dryly. "This really isn't something you can Google."

Arthur sighed and was about to say something to Alfred about his less than helpful remark when Francis started to speak.

"I... I actually remember," Francis said softly. Arthur turned to look at him and, this time, really looked at him.

Francis's hair was wiry and ruffled, not as shiny as it once was. His stubble had grown, giving a rougher texture to his face. His beautiful sapphire eyes seemed to have darkened and Arthur noticed some extra lines around Francis's eyes. The last thing Arthur noticed was Francis's posture. The French man's posture had changed from a slightly overconfident stance to a withdrawn and more internalized demeanor. Francis sat with his legs tucked closer than before his arms crossed and pressed to his abdomen.

"I remember parts of the story..." Francis said again, bringing Arthur out of his trance.

"How... What made you remember?" Kiku asked, who was the first to regain his tongue of the group.

Francis looked away then. "He... he said some stuff from your book and I guess they triggered some memories..."

More silence.

"What did you remember?" Arthur asked, his eyes still on Francis.

"A lot," he takes a deep breath. "But I think I remember more than you wrote about me, Arthur..." He looked up at Arthur. "I am remembering memories of my mother... And people who are my siblings... I remember lunch with coworkers at what I can assume is the office where I reported to my boss for stories and lunch time with the other reporters..."

"Wow... I... What does that mean then? You're developing your own... life?" Arthur said in amazement. Now, not only were his characters in the real world but now Francis had a developing history. What if Jack had remembered his own past?

"I guess..." Francis said, acting almost sheepish. "I'm not sure how... to handle these memories though..."

"Do you remember anything about Jack? Anything that would help us?" Alfred spoke. He met Francis's gaze with his own. It was steady more than anything, if not a touch bit challenging.

"No, nothing," Francis said but kept his head high anyway.

"Then we're at an impasse," Alfred said. "How about we take a break and try to sleep on this?" His entire stance screamed annoyance at Francis and his tone was curt and short, but Arthur and Kiku didn't seem to notice.

"Fine, I could do with a few more hours of sleep..." Arthur said, standing from where he sat. He yawned and nodded to the other members of the room. "Goodnight Kiku, Alfred, are you going to go back to your apartment?" Before Alfred could say anything, Kiku spoke up.

"Alfred, if you would like, you may sleep on the pull out couch to stay close to us. Now that you're involved, you may be at risk."

Alfred paused but then nodded. "Alright. Thanks, Kiku." Kiku nodded and went to get some extra sheets.

Arthur and Francis bid Alfred and Kiku a good night and went to their own separate bedroom. Alfred's eyes naturally followed Arthur as he disappeared through the door and he wished that he didn't know that Francis and Arthur would be in the same room.

"So, who is the American?" Francis asked casually. Arthur shouldn't have been surprised but he felt some of the tension between the two men.

"He's... just an old friend." Arthur said, not really wanting to get into this awkward and not-so-happy topic with Francis at the moment. Though Arthur had to hand it to Francis. He probably wouldn't have the effort to talk about such an exhausting subject if Arthur were in Francis's place.

"Oh," was all Francis said, surprising Arthur. Arthur was expecting some more questions or a bit more curiosity but... there was none. Francis just went to the bathroom and starting brushing his teeth. Alfred had asked the same thing as Francis had but had followed up with more comments. Arthur on the other hand didn't know how he felt about either of them, to be honest.

While Arthur was thinking, Francis finished brushing his teeth and got a good look at himself then.

He saw only an aged, if not scruffier, version of himself but felt... okay despite coming face to face with Jack. He reached for his razor though, wanting to rid himself of the longer, darker hairs that grew around his neck and chin. His hair grew quite quickly but it was a nice inbetween of prickly and soft.

As he slathered on the shaving cream and started dragging the razor over his skin, Arthur left the bathroom after having brushed his own teeth and changed into a new pair of pajamas. Francis heard Arthur moving around the other room and felt himself relax some more. He sighed and began to rinse his face and the shaving cream off. The cold water felt good on his skin and he splashed the cool liquid over his entire face, rubbing at his eyes gently.

Then he straightened up and looked in the mirror, suddenly jumping back and letting out a strangled scream. There, written on the mirror were the very words that Jack had last said to him. Francis's fingers were covered in warm, sticky blood and he suddenly felt nauseous, the world tilting around him.

"Francis? Francis!" Arthur came skidding around the corner. He grabbed Francis's wrists, holding them firmly. "Francis, what did you do to yourself?"

Then, everything was clear to him.

The words were not a hallucination of his fragile mind. They were real and Francis had written them with his own blood. Francis's cheek stung where the razor had cut him and he felt the blood trickle down his cheek and down his neck. Francis moved a hand to his cheek to stop the blood flow.

"That's a pretty serious cut, Francis..." Arthur said, getting a towel for the cut, pausing only when he saw that the towel was white. He mentally apologized to the hotel staff as he pressed towel against the cut gently. "Here, hold this. I'm going to see if I can get Kiku's med kit... Stay here, okay?" Arthur was about to leave when he saw the words that had been smudged on the mirror.

"Francis." Arthur's voice was firm, but looking at Arthur's face, Francis could see something resembling guilt from the creases in the author's face. "Do _not _let him or the story get to you. You are separate from your story now." Arthur stared into Francis's eyes, his hands once again on Francis's cheeks, avoiding the towel and the cut. He pressed his forehead to Francis's. "You are more than Francis Bonnefoy, the journalist main character of Arthur Harris's series."

Francis smiled slightly, though he couldn't get rid of the knot in his stomach. "Thank you," he whispered. He felt some of his panic die down a bit now. "I know. I'll do my best."

"Good. Do better than your best though." Arthur said. "I don't want to see you suffer..." Then, he paused and kissed Francis's forehead gently.

Francis was pleasantly surprised when he felt Arthur's lips and smiled.

"Well, that makes all of this worth it," he looked at Arthur when they parted. Arthur's blush made it even better. "You're very cute, mon petit chou," he paused. "And I still love you, you know..."

Arthur smiled despite his extreme embarrassment and the urge to hide under his blankets away from Francis. "I may not be... right for you and we're practically from different worlds but... I think I can return your feelings..."

Francis couldn't help but to feel one-hundred times better than before. He felt lifted, excited, and hopeful again. The churning of his stomach seemed to just evaporate away. THe problem of Jack and where he came from and what his life was like before Arthur didn't matter anymore.

Francis leaned in to kiss Arthur properly this time and the kiss, the blissful moment was gloriously shared between them.

"I've still got to get you a bandage, I'll be back, okay, love?" Arthur said after they pulled apart again. He fidgeted a little under the Frenchman's soft gaze but also seemed calmer than Francis thought he should be. Almost... cautious?

Brushing off Francis's suspicions, he leaned back against the wall and sighed to himself. Overall, he was content now, but he knew and remembered that the battle with Jack was just getting started.

16


	8. Chapter 8

**This chapter has caused me so much pain. **

**But, I hope you enjoy it! I know how I'm going to end the entire story now so I hope to complete the entire story by the end of this year and in two more chapters. :) **

**Thanks again to my beta, ScarletPrussia!**

* * *

Arthur moved to the United States when he was sixteen. He was moved unwillingly with his parents and three other brothers to a rather small house in the state of New York. His parents were over there for work and quickly enrolled the boys in school to keep them occupied in their new environment.

Unhappy that his family moved so far away from their original home, a young Arthur began to rebel against any and all forms of authority. He was not so embracing of the American culture that he was now surrounded by as opposed to the small village English culture he loved. He discovered the British punk rockers of the 1970s. He dyed his hair green, got two new piercings and a tattoo on his left hip of the electric guitar he learned how to play the next month. Good little Artie let his grades fall just enough to get his parents' attention but still did very well on most tests and got along with most of his classmates, even if his appearance and demeanor was rather brash and abrasive.

When it was time to start looking for a university for Arthur to get his degree, Arthur's hair went back to being blonde and his mostly black or intentionally torn clothes were donated. Now that Arthur was older and he understood that the reason why his family moved for work and financial reasons, he forgave his parents and made amends.

Arthur then went on to attend a school in New York for law with faraway hopes to transfer to Harvard later. It was there Arthur met Alfred, but in his later years of his college experience. After the initial jitters of being alone, Arthur had acclimated to living on his own and managing his own needs. He got a job as a waiter in a local restaurant and started saving his money for school and (hopefully) a trip back to England.

One day in the library of his junior year, while researching a decent price for a plane ticket, Arthur saw a golden haired guy walk in, pull a big stack of books from the space and aeronautics section. He was handsome and smart and Arthur started seeing him more and more around campus. They had no classes with each other, yet, somehow, they kept running into each other.

Something Arthur had discovered during his rebellious phase was that he was gay and that his sexual orientation was considered wrong. Going to college, he found that there was a whole community of scorned "sinners" like Arthur. He made a few close friends through a club of university students.

It was in this club where Arthur finally got the name of the man with the hair of gold and the eyes of aquamarine.

Alfred Jones.

Alfred was _not_ gay but he was bisexual and that gave Arthur hope.

Arthur learned that Alfred had a desire for bigger and better things too. He was majoring in aerospace engineering but hoped to transfer to MIT or Stanford.

"Are you single?" a bolder student of the club asked. Arthur remembered it was a bigger man from Russia who had the same major as Alfred.

Alfred shrugged as his answer but no one spoke up to ask him to elaborate.

Finally, while at the library again, Arthur willed up enough courage to get up and go over where Alfred sat studying and ask him on a date.

"Listen, You may not know me or notice me, but would you like to get some tea or dinner sometime?"

"Oh, I've seen you around," Alfred said with a smile.

"What do you mean?" Arthur asked, frowning.

"We've been running into each other for the past month. We're in a few of the same clubs but you never said anything to me..." Alfred pointed out kindly. "Though I'm glad you decided to talk to me today..."

"Uh, same," Arthur responded, still processing what the American student said to him. _Get it together Arthur!_ "So... do you know of somewhere good that won't make my wallet cry?"

Alfred smiled. "Yeah, I know a few places that are delicious and reasonably priced. Do you have a preference in food?"

"Not French, if you don't mind," Arthur said. That fateful trip to France would not be forgotten so easily.

Alfred laughed at the Brit's response. "Why is that the type of food you dislike? Most people _like_French cuisine..."

"Oh, come off it. I'm English, can't I not like the French and not be judged?" Arthur felt a warm blush spread across his cheeks.

"Sure, sure..." alfred smiled at Arthur, his laughter dying down. "I'll call you later then?"

"Yeah..." Arthur nodded and then went back to his own table again.

The two sat across each other now but at different tables. Alfred rose a hand and waved. Arthur's mouth twitched and he hesitantly waved back.

* * *

Arthur set one worried foot on each stair slowly. He squawked in protest as 'The Blonde Flash' zoomed past him on the stairs.

"Come on, Alfred!" Arthur groaned as he reached the stair landing at last. "Don't show off!"

"Hey, it's not my fault that you can only carry one box at a time, " Alfred set the two boxes down, took the box from Arthur's hands and then set it on his own two. Arthur watched him in amazement but followed the American up three more flights. Arthur was ashamed to say his stamina left him lightly puffing after the third and fourth sets of stairs.

"Your stamina sucks, bro," Alfred said once Arthur entered the apartment room.

"I know," Arthur said, agreeing for once. "Maybe _I_ should do all the unpacking and _you_ should do all the lifting. That way, I don't slow you down..."

"Haha, very funny, Art," Alfred smiled, meeting the Brit's moss green eyes. "I see where you're going."

Arthur smiled back and began slicing the taped up boxes. Half-way through the first box though, a pair of arms snaked their way around Arthur's chest.

"I can't get rid of these boxes if they're not empty..."

"I just want a hug, Artie. Can't you take a few moments to give your new roommate a hug? ... and maybe a kiss?" Alfred put his chin on Arthur's shoulder and pouted just enough for Arthur to see out of the corner of his eyes.

"Oh, fine..." Arthur said, smiling. He turned and took Alfred's face between his hands and pressed their lips together. "Why do I indulge you so much?" Arthur mumbled as the couple kissed. Alfred chuckled and only pulled Arthur closer.

When they parted for air, Alfred had a devious look in his eyes. "Shall we christen the new apartment?"

Arthur blushed but did not make any sound of protest as he was swept up into the arms of the American and carried to their apartment's new bedroom.

* * *

"What the hell are you saying, you're not making sense, Alfred!" Arthur shouted in desperation. His throat was dry and his voice hoarse but his eyes brimmed with tears. "I thought... I thought you were completely sure of yourself! You made it seem like you were sure!"

"So was I, but I think I need a break..." Alfred said his voice obviously controlled and strained but still his face held no sign of pain or remorse.

He was breaking up with Arthur and it _**hurt**_. He said he needed to figure out if being gay was what he wanted to be labeled as whenever they walked out in public. He still looked at girls, he said. He wanted some time and Arthur thought there was no way Alfred would choose him over a societal stigma if he had the chance.

"Then I don't ever want to see you again!" Arthur said, his voice finally cracking at the end, his tears finally spilling over. Alfred swallowed, his own throat closing up.

"Arthur, I don't want to never see you again... I just need some time..." he said softly.

"They why are you doing this?" Arthur paused, refusing to sob audibly in front of Alfred.

"I just... need to figure myself out... I'm really sorry, Artie-"

"Don't. Don't say my name. Just... I'm going to go..." Arthur choked. He tore his eyes away from Alfred's form in their once happy apartment. He had to get out of there. This apartment would only cause him pain to remain here.

Through burning eyes, he threw most of his clothes into a rucksack and some of the basic school supplies he still needed for his classes and then rushed out of the apartment. He didn't see Alfred as he left but he knew he probably had retreated into the small laundry corner of the apartment.

Once Arthur had left the now stuffy place he once called home, he walked to the nearest bridge and wiped his face. He ignored the curious and sympathetic stares and went to the side of the bridge, looking down at the inky black water below.

He pulled out his small ring of keys, singling out the one that unlocked the apartment. _I know I might regret this decision later but__..._Arthur then pried the key off his key ring and threw it into the river.

"Good riddance," Arthur muttered, the words tasting somewhat... freeing but bitter. Then, he turned his back on the city of New York.

* * *

Francis woke up earlier than he expected. He checked his phone's clock and saw that he had slept a full day. It was seven in the morning of the next day and Francis already knew he wouldn't be able to fall back asleep.

The hotel room was still dark, partially because of the rising sun but also because the hotel's thick, heavy curtains.

Arthur slept soundly in the second bed and Francis was strangely comforted by the steady rhythm of his light snores. He quietly slipped out of the hotel room, heading down to the complimentary breakfast the hotel served. There were a few businessmen and families sitting at the tables talking quietly but otherwise, the breakfast rush had not yet arrived.

Francis poured himself some coffee and grabbed a still-warm croissant from the bread bowl and sat down towards the back of the seating area. The croissant wasn't half bad and the coffee was comforting and warm.

Francis occupied the quiet time passing by finally paying attention to the architecture of the hotel itself.

With high vaulted ceilings and large stone pillars, the dining hall was equally as beautiful as the concierge. Through the double French doors to the left, Francis could observe the bellhops and doormen standing at the revolving glass door. The plants used to decorate the atrium of the hotel were waist-high, beautifully potted and leafy or flowery. Marbled floors were swirled with mica and other minerals that sparkled under the soft halogen lights. All in all, a beautifully chosen hotel by Kiku.

Francis's focus was diverted from the floors to the person who pulled the chair across from Francis out and promptly seated themselves without asking permission.

"Alfred...?" Francis frowned, not quite sure if the name he used was correct.

"Yep. Mornin'." Alfred plopped his plate and his own coffee mug down with a clunk and promptly began eating. Francis noticed that Alfred's plate was practically overflowing with what Francis believed to be one of everything from the breakfast bar.

"... Are you going to be able to finish all that?" Francis asked, almost amazed Alfred was somehow shoveling in all the food at an alarmingly fast rate.

"Yup. I'm extra hungry today. What're you doin' up so early anyway?" Alfred asked casually between enormous bites.

Francis took his time watching the American in amazement. Did all Americans eat like Alfred? It was in such a sharp contrast from Arthur's eating habits that Francis couldn't help but to wonder.

"Ah... I could not sleep any longer..." Francis said. "I slept an entire day anyway."

"Hm. Yeah, Art slept for two. Though, he always is sleep deprived so the extra day was probably just him catching up," Alfred said thoughtfully.

"So I've noticed," Francis said. Arthur didn't like pet names, so why was Alfred using one? The two fell into silence as Francis sipped his coffee and as Alfred ate. When Alfred's plate was almost done, he stopped and looked up at Francis.

"You're staring at me," he stated.

"Oh? Was I? My apologies," Francis said, trying to keep some poison out of his tone. "I was thinking."

"Hm. How are you going to solve this problem of you story characters in the 'real world' then? Were you thinking about that?" Alfred asked, the sharpness in his voice a bit more prevalent this time. Before Francis could respond though, Alfred stood and went back to the breakfast bar and reloaded his plate up with more food than the last time.

"So. Theories?" Alfred asked, starting his second feast when he came back.

"Well... Arthur killed me at the end of his series..." Francis said recalling his demise. "Perhaps when I was fictional, I wished to have another chance and not be dead?" Though Francis had new and old memories, he didn't have memories between his fictional demise and his awakening in the 'real' world. It was like a blank space, a fuzzy memory gap.

"That could be plausible. Hm..." Alfred thought. "This may sound crazy... but what if Arthur wrote about a different dimension and you just jumped the dimensional gap?"

Francis raised an eyebrow. Odd theory, but at this rate, anything seemed possible.

"Maybe. This situation is definitely not natural," Francis shrugged. Frankly, to him, he didn't really care about _how_ he got here. "What about Jack? If I'm here because I wanted a second chance, why is Jack here?"

"Who knows." Alfred said casually. There was a pause and then Alfred lowered his voice. "You know, Arthur doesn't like the French."

Oh. So that's how Alfred likes to play it, huh? Straight to the point. "And yet the character he made was me. And I am French." Francis sighed a little. Arthur had not told him about Alfred but it didn't take too much intelligence to know that the American was not 'just a friend'. Alfred's gaze hid nothing.

"And he killed you," Alfred said. He ate a piece of bacon nonchalantly.

"But he saved me from Jack," Francis countered, trying to keep the irritation (and amusement) out of his voice. Alfred argued like a little child.

"Art's a good person," Alfred retorted.

"His name is _Arthur_," Francis enunciated. Did Arthur let the American get away with the pet names when he was around Alfred? Did Arthur still have feelings for Alfred or was what Alfred said true? Could he just have said the words of favor to Francis just to make Francis feel better? Arthur had seemed... cautious of Francis when they talked in the bathroom.

"We were in a relationship once," Alfred said casually, though his eyes were challenging Francis. Francis did not think of himself as an easily angered person but he felt himself prickle a bit at the mention of the hidden truth.

"_We_ are in a relationship _now_." Francis nearly hissed. He watched in satisfaction as Alfred's face changed from cocky to apprehensive.

"Well... well, I'm going to be in one later with him!" Alfred huffed. "I'll be able to provide for him better than you! You're just a character from a book!"

"You don't have as much passion as I do. Arthur and I have natural chemistry." Francis didn't know why he was arguing with the American in an equally childish manner that he had just scoffed at but he couldn't help but to engage in the tiff.

Though the two argued like toddlers, there was some tension in the air and some of the other patrons of the breakfast became a little uncomfortable as they heard the two men's voices raising in volume.

"Hey, you two idiots..." someone said from behind them. The two men froze mid sentence and slowly turned.

"Oh, bon matin, Arthur How did you see-" Francis began.

"Don't give me that rubbish, frog. I could hear you two bickering from the elevators," Arthur nearly growled at the two. He pulled out a chair from the table and sat down, a mug of tea in his hand (unsurprisingly).

"Oh, I didn't realize we were being loud..." Francis said. He noticed that Alfred's big mouth had fallen silent and looked a bit guilty but his eyes were still defiant and steeled against Francis.

"Did you two at least think about the problem Jack presents? The more time that passes, the more of a risk he poses towards us and the public," Arthur explained, completely ignoring the topic that he had heard Francis and Alfred argue about. He didn't want to think about that. Alfred nodded. He knew his brain wouldn't rest until there was a solution.

"Maybe we should re-research Jack's background. Even if this is New York, not London, maybe there will be parallels?" Alfred suggested. "We know he's probably not going to follow his original story but maybe there are slight similarities?"

"Hmm... That does sound like a good idea..." Arthur thought. "Though, I didn't bring any of my books with me..."

"We can just go to a bookstore, Arthur. There's a Barnes &amp; Nobles close to here." Alfred shrugged, secretly happy that Arthur and him seemed to be able to have controlled and quiet conversations now.

"Oh... Okay then," Arthur nodded, looking a little confused at the mention of the American bookstore. Kiku joined them then, pulling out the chair across from Arthur and yawned.

"Good morning, everyone." Kiku said gently, as to not startle anyone with his appearance. He was met with brief hellos from all three men. "So, do we have some sort of plan for the day?"

"Yeah, we're going to Barnes &amp; Nobles later... You should come with us since you're part of this too..." Alfred said, taking a sip of his coffee.

"I agree with that suggestion," Kiku nodded. "However, please allow me to get some tea and some breakfast before we go." Kiku did not wait to get affirmation, but knew he did not need any.

Arthur now sat at the table again, playing peacemaker with his ex and his lover. He sipped his own tea. Why was all of this even a problem?

Arthur let his mind wander once Kiku returned and all four men got dressed to leave the hotel. They walked down the street as the bookstore was too close to take a taxi.

Jack was a creation of Arthur's mind, meant almost to be a version of Arthur who could not feel the pain of love or betrayal. Francis was meant to be a threat to Jack's way of life as his position as a news reporter and a rather flirtatious, but kind hearted man. Both were born after Alfred broke Arthur's heart, and yet here Alfred stood next to him, once again wrapped up in his life again.

Rewriting the story seemed impossible and unlikely that it would change the predicament they were in considered in that Arthur's story was published globally and changing one version of the story could possibly cause other problems.

Thinking about it, Francis and Jack's presence definitely stirred up Arthur's life that many would consider boring. Why did Jack and Francis materialize in the physical world? Did they appear to bring him back to Alfred? Was getting Alfred involved just a coincidence or was it meant to be? So many questions and yet Arthur had no answers...

"Hey, Arthur?" Francis stood in their shared room, standing with his arms by his side and almost a sad look on his face.

"Yes?" Arthur asked quietly. The silence grew between them but it was a comfort and pensiveness.

"I just want to let you know that whatever happens if I have to die again to solve all this, I want you to know that I love you, no matter what. Beyond character and creator," Francis said quietly. His eyes were a controlled blue and his face a gentle and relaxed state. "Know that if something happens to me, it will be for your happiness."

"What the bloody hell does that mean?" Arthur asked, frowning at Francis. "It sounds like you're going to do something crazy like sacrificing yourself or something."

"No, I won't be doing something like that, but I just wanted to let you know what I was thinking." Francis said. He finally moved from his spot and walked over to where Arthur stood, wrapping the British author into a warm embrace. "I love you. Je t'aime."

Arthur gulped, feeling strangely like this was a goodbye more than a reassurance of love. "I... I love you too. We'll come up with something.

Then a knock on Arthur and Francis door again.

They parted as Alfred and Kiku stood outside. Time to go to the bookstore.

* * *

They arrived in no time at the store that held stock of everything from dealing with anxiety, to cooking recipes for stay-at-home moms, to lovers transcending time and distance, and adventures in mythical lands.

The men found Arthur's series quickly and went to the bookstore cafe. Kiku had brought a pen and a pad of paper to take notes.

They each skimmed a book, each reporting details for Kiku to write down. Francis, Arthur and Alfred were all on some sort of level of discomfort with reading throught eh books.

This is my life, Francis thought.

This is my rival and ex in one, Alfred thought.

This is my writing that definitely needs improvement, Arthur thought (like a true author).

All four men racked their brains for ideas to get rid of the serial killer on the loose.

Arthur rubbed his eyes after scanning the last page of his tenth chapter of his third book. He rose his arms and stretched, leaning back in the chair.

"I'll be right back," Arthur said, standing and stretching completely. He felt a few joints pop and he sighed, walking off to stretch his legs.

His companions nodded, still engrossed in their own books.

Arthur began walking through the bookstore, between the shelves of books that towered over Arthur's head, occasionally scanning the titles and spines of various types of books.

"You won't find your answers here," a voice spoke over the shelves of stories and advice.

Arthur stopped. _No... it couldn't be._ "Where do you suppose I find them though if you're on the loose? I'm running out of time in this country..."

"You know how I am," A chuckle. "You'll figure it out."

Arthur frowned and walked slowly to the end of the book case, inching closer and closer. "And what makes you think I will since I'm struggling with my friends now? How would searching elsewhere help me...?"

"Fresh eyes," Jack chuckled.

By then, Arthur reached the end of the book case and jumped around the corner BUT...

There was no one on the other side.

Confused on where the voice had come from, he walked to where he heard the voice looking around.

But there was nothing.

Arthur sort of got what Jack meant by 'fresh eyes' but... he also had a sneaking suspicion of what Jack might actually mean.

Arthur returned to his friend sand sat down slowly. "Chaps... Jack was here."

Everyone stopped and looked up, Kiku's pen ceasing its scratching.

"What? Are you okay?"

"What did he say?"

"Did he do anything to you?"

The questions came fast and all at once, but all were questions of concern for Arthur's well being and of Jack's words.

"Hold on, hold on..." Arthur put his hands up, his brow furrowing. "Let me just tell you guys what happened instead of answering individual questions..."

They all fell silent obediently.

* * *

"Fresh eyes?" Alfred started. "Does... he mean...?"

"You," Arthur nodded. "Or, at least I think so. That may be the reason why he involved you..."

"But why does the story _need_ a new outside opinion?" Francis asked, thinking, almost jealously, about Alfred's new role to the plot.

"Because you guys know the story super in-depth. This is only the second time I've read this book," Alfred said, raising the book slightly. "I'm noticing a lot more the second time..."

Kiku nodded, looking at his notes. "Alfred's right. He contributed a lot more notes than all of us. He's catching things we overlook as we find the main details." Kiku flipped a page of handwritten notes. "He caught that, ah..., the book Francis," a slight pause and a glance at the physical Francis, "found that Jack seems to like almost taunting his victims with hints how to get out of their situation. And the hints are all true. He knows his own weaknesses and points them out."

"Always one step ahead," Arthur murmured. He remembered writing the frustration of Francis trying to solve the case. It felt almost the same.

"I also noticed that Jack has something against love?" Alfred said, more as a question that a statement. "Every time Francis, uh storybook Francis, I mean, mentioned it, he'd either go silent with his messages or he'd go on a rant of some sort..."

"Because he didn't have it himself?" Kiku tried.

"No... no, more so... he rejects the idea, or the importance? I don't know, it's just a thought..." Alfred shrugged.

"Well imagine if it is plausible though," Francis started. "We can't exactly show him love if we can't get a hold of him and I'm pretty sure that making a profile for Jack on eHarmony or Tinder would do us any good.

Kiku laughed and earned a chuckle from Alfred. Arthur was still thinking.

* * *

"What are you doing here, Jack?" Arthur said, his entire body tense.

"You called for a cab. Here I am," Jack said from the front of the car.

"I wasn't expecting _you_," he retorted.

"Aw, don't be picky now..." Jack said, turning his face only a quarter of a turn. "Besides, we have a few things to talk about."

"Like what?" Arthur asked, glancing out the window. Jack drove through the streets like an experience taxi driver, signalling, merging and easing in and out of accelerating like a true New Yorker.

"You are my author, my creator. I know my own story and how your story is pretty much unfinished, basie don how you ended your series," Jack started. Arthur felt his eyebrows furrow.

"What did you mean?" Arthur asked. "They story is finished. I finished the series. It's done..."

"Not quite, Artie. You still have some things to wrap up before you can get rid of me. Of Francis. You've left so many things unresolved, so many possibilities that are free to happen, " Jack nearly growled. His voice steadily starting rising, getting harsher with each punctuated word. "You were afraid and that made you _weak_. Lazy, even,"

Arthur swallowed, his throat suddenly thick and tight. Even if Arthur didn't want to admit it, somehow, he knew Jack was right. Finished the series had been a relief but even Arthur knew the ending had been rushed, an attempt to rid himself of a character that experienced love and had become so obnoxiously popular.

"Figure out how to fix our mistake or I will do something about my unlimited freedom," Jack said with a deadly quietness. "Have a good diner, chap."

Arthur realized the cab had stopped and Arthur was back at his hotel with five minutes to spare to get up to his hotel room. As if in a dream, he opened the door slowly and got out, but didn't pay. Jack didn't seem to mind as he drove off, the yellow cab easily blending back in with the rest of the cars.

Arthur stood on the sidewalk for a few more moments and then walked into the hotel, riding the elevator up in silence. When he faced Francis, he forced himself back into normalcy.

Francis and Jack were here in the physical world because... they didn't have "proper" endings? But... how would Arthur solve the problem?

Was it just as simple as writing another book or an epilogue only he knew about or did the "bonus" chapter(s) have to be published too?

Would the new ending change things with Francis?


End file.
